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DOROTHY 



Dorothy 



31 Countrrp ^torp 



IN ELEGIAC VERSE 



' Une servante Anglaise, qui a le calus du scrobage aux genoux ' 

Les Mis^rables 
' Besides, our hands are hard ' — As You Like It 



BOSTON 
ROBERTS BROTHERS 

1882 



'?^ 



University Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 

W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



TO MY SINGULAR GOOD FRIEND 
AND ANTIENT COMRADE 

RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE, M.A. 

AUTHOR OF "LORNA DOONE " 



L 



In England^ by the quiet streams of Yore, 

Is that lone house they live in and they love : 
An upland shaw defefids it from above, 

With hazels and with hawthorn-clumps, the store 

And broodingplace of birds ; and evermore 

Across the meads, the various milk and gold 
Of buttercups and daisies, they behold 

The woods and hills, the ruins high and hoar, 

And that old church, to some at least still dear. 
Where the meek dead are garner'd year by year 

From love and work, from sorrow and from joy. 

Ah, what sweet memories may their souls employ, 
While in a summer eve they sit and hear 
The distant dying waters, falling at the weir / 



DOROTHY. 




I. 

OROTHY goes with her pails to the 
ancient well in the courtyard 
Daily at grey of morn, daily ere twi- 
light at eve; 
Often and often again she winds at the mighty 
old windlass, 
Still with her strong red arms landing the 
bucket aright: 
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on her 
broad square shoulders, 
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her burden 
returns : 
She with her burden returns to the fields that 
she loves, to the cattle 
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming her and 
her pails. 
Dorothy — who is she? She is only a servant- 
of-all-work ; 



lO DOROTHY. 

Servant at White Rose Farm, under the cliff 
in the vale: 
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins build 
in the springtime, 
Hard by the green level meads, hard by the 
streams of the Yore. 
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the pride 
of the dairy ! 
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a heifer 
to work: 
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built for 
labour — 
Witness her muscular arm, witness the grip of 
her hand ! 
It was her hands, do you know, that lost her and 
won her a sweetheart. 
Here, in the harvest time, only a twelvemonth 
ago. 
Dorothy came to the farm, where her mother 
was servant before her. 
Long, long since — let me see; yes, it is here 
she was born : 
Twenty-one years have pass'd, since Betsy, the 
stout ruddy milkmaid. 
Lay in a garret here, dead, leaving her baby 
behind. 



DOROTHY. II 

Great was the scandal it caused ; for many sus- 
pected the father: 
Oft had he lodged in the house — made it a 
bachelor's home ; 
Sketching and fishing in spring, and hunting at 
times in the winter; 
Visiting, too, when he pleased, all the great 
neighbours around. 
Why should he care for her, for Betsy the rude 
ruddy milkmaid. 
He, who could have, if he would, ladies in 
plenty to woo? 
Well — but they said it was he : and the motherly 
wife of the farmer 
Took poor Betsy's child, rear'd it almost like 
her own. 
Two little daughters she had ; and Dorothy grew 
up beside them, 
Learning her ABC out of the very same 
book: 
Learning moreover to write, though her clumsy 
laborious fingers 
Never took kindly to that, hardly could manage 
a pen. 
True, she had marks of her sire — his height, his 
regular features; 



12 DOROTHY. 

Also her golden hair seem'd a reflexion of 
his: 
But with her mother's frame — the strong coarse 
frame of a farm-wench; 
Only, refined here and there, shaped by a qual- 
ity blood: 
And, as the years drew on, and she grew from a 
child to a servant, 
Earning wages at last, heartily working and 
well. 
More of her mother appear'd; and the delicate 
traits of the father. 
Save in her handsome face, speedily faded 
away. 



Weakly her mistress was, and weakly the two 

little daughters; 
But by her master's side Dorothy wrought like 

a son: 
Wrought out of doors on the farm, and labour'd 

in dairy and kitchen. 
Doing the work of two; help and support of 

them all. 
Rough were her broad brown hands, and within, 

ah me ! they were horny : 



DOROTHY. 13 

Rough were her thick ruddy arms, shapely and 
round as they were: 
Rough too her glowing cheeks ; and her sunburnt 
face and forehead 
Browner than cairngorm seem'd, set in her 
amber-bright hair. 
Yet 'twas a handsome face ; the beautiful regular 
features 
Labour could never spoil, ignorance could not 
degrade : 
And in her clear blue eyes bright gleams of in- 
telHgence Hnger'd ; 
And on her warm red mouth, Love might have 
'lighted and lain. 
Never an unkind word nor a rude unseemly ex- 
pression 
Came from that soft red mouth; nor in those 
sunny blue eyes 
Lived there a look that belied the frankness of 
innocent girlhood — 
Fearless, because it is pure ; gracious, and gen- 
tle, and calm. 
Have you not seen such a face, among rural hard- 
working maidens 
Born but of peasant stock, free from our Doro- 
thy's shame? 



14 DOROTHY. 

Just such faces as hers — a countenance open and 
artless, 
Where no knowledge appears, culture, nor vis- 
ion of grace; 
Yet which an open-air life and simple and strenu- 
ous labour 
Fills with a charm of its own — precious, and 
warm from the heart? 
Hers was full of that charm; and besides, was 
something ennobled, 
Something adorn'd, by thoughts due to a gen- 
tle descent: 
So that a man should say, if he saw her afield at 
the milking. 
Or with her sickle at work reaping the barley 
or beans, 
'There is a strapping wench — a lusty lass of a 
thousand, 
* Able to fend for herself, fit for the work of a 
man ! ' 
But if he came more near, and she lifted her face 
to behold him, 
*Ah,' he would cry, 'what a change! Surely 
a lady is here ! ' 
Yes — if a lady be one who is gracious and quiet 
in all things. 



DOROTHY. 15 

Thinking no evil at all, helpful wherever she 
can; 
Then too at White Rose Farm, by the martins' 
cliff in the valley, 
There was a lady; and she was but the servant 
of all. 
True, when she spoke, her speech was the homely 
speech of the country; 
Rough with quaint antique words, picturesque 
sayings of old: 
And, for the things that she said, they were noth- 
ing but household phrases — 
News of the poultry and kine, tidings of village 
and home ; 
But there was something withal in her musical 
voice and her manner 
Gave to such workaday talk touches of higher 
degree. 
So too, abroad and alone, when she saw the sun 
rise o'er the meadows, 
Or amid golden clouds saw him descending at 
eve; 
Though no poetic thought, no keen and rapturous 
insight, 
Troubled her childlike soul, yet she could won- 
der and gaze ; 



l6 DOROTHY. 

Yet she could welcome the morn for its beauty 
as well as its brightness, 
And, in the evening glow, think — not of supper 
alone. 



Still, after all, with the life of a rustic maid, of a 
servant. 
Thought has but little to do; action alone is 
her sphere. 
Action! And what can she do? Must I tell you 
our Dorothy's labours. 
Set her accomplishments down, merely to flat- 
ter your pride ; 
Merely to let you perceive that she cannot do 
anything yoii do ; 
Can neither play nor sing; cannot speak Ger- 
man, nor French ; 
Cannot converse — not she — on matters away 
from her caUing; 
Can't for the life of her tell what your (Esthetics 
may mean ; 
Cannot at all understand, when you speak about 
pictures and concerts ; 
Has not the faintest idea either of science or 
art; 



DOROTHY. 17 

Nay, is so dreadfully dull, that you all might talk 
in her presence 
Hours together, and she would not remember a 
word ! 
Ay, and worse still — for this is a fatal sign, in a 
woman — 
Has no views about dress; cares not a bit for 
the mode? 
But, if you ask her to tell of the things that be- 
long to the country — 
How cade-lambs are rear'd; when such a calf 
should be wean'd; 
How to make butter and cheese, or do this or that 
in the kitchen ; 
She, in her modest way, simply and aptly 
replies : 
Or, if you ask of the ways of birds and four- 
footed creatures, 
Robin the keeper himself knows them not better 
than she. 
True (as among the poor and such as live by 
labour 
Often a skilful hand goes with a faltering 
tongue ; 
Or as the knights of old left the tale of their 

deeds to a minstrel, 
2 



1 8 DOROTHY. 

Thinking it scorn to relate what they were 
proud to achieve) 
True — there was much she could do, but could 
not explain how she did it ; 
Spending her skill on the deed, not on the art 
to describe : 
But she could show it in act — could show how 
to harness a cart-horse, 
How to cut turnips for sheep ; how to feed 
cattle in stall; 
How you should choose your manure for a cold 
clay land, or a light one ; 
How you should fatten a pig ; how you should 
kill him and cure. 



' Base barren knowledge,' say you ? But what if 

it earns her a living? 
What if it should be her all — all she can ever 

display? 
And I deny it is base : these things must be done, 

and the doer 
Surely ennobles the work, if she be true to 

herself; 
Yea, she ennobles her mates: the presence and 

help of a woman, 



1 



DOROTHY. 19 

If she be woman indeed, checks yet enlivens a 
man. 
Woman mdeed — ah yes; for factory-girls and pit- 
girls 
Well may be under control, working in gangs 
as they do ; 
But in our Dorothy's life, herself was her only 
controller ; 
Master and maid was she, working with men or 
alone. 
Oh — I have yet to complete the list of her many 
employments : 
First, she can read, as I said ; read in the Bible, 
I mean — 
Oft on a Sunday night, when the household meet 
in the evening, 
Reading aloud by the hearth, taking her turn 
with the rest: 
And, as I said, she can write ; she can fashion her 
name in a round hand 
Fit for a ploughman to see under his own in 
the book: 
Then, she can sew, right well: for stitching and 
hemming and darning. 
Whether to make or to mend, none are more 
clever than she ; 



20 DOROTHY. 

Hard as her fingers are, fine needlework only 
excepted, 
None in the parish can show stitching more 
subtle than hers: 
Samplers, too; long ago, she wrought a most 
beautiful sampler, 
Gay with a cris-cross row, splendid with Adam 
and Eve; 
Framed in her attic, it is, a joy for them that come 
after : 
Such as her mother made — such as they never 
make now. 
Then, she can scrub, and scour, and swill with the 
bucket and besom. 
Flinging her pailfuls afar mightily over the 
yard; 
Sweeping the water away with rapid and vigorous 
movement. 
Till on the clean wet flags never a footmark 
appears : 
And all over the house you may hear her on 
Saturdays, always, 
Down on her hands and knees, lustily scrubbing 
away; 
Scrubbing the warm red bricks of the kitchen floor 
or the dairy; 



DOROTHY. 21 

Scrubbing the oaken boards — parlour and stair- 
case and all. 
Item — as Touchstone says — she can blacklead 
grates and fenders ; 
Cleverly lay you a fire, tidily sweep up the 
hearth ; 
Dig and carry the coals ; chop wood, and polish 
the irons ; 
Blacken her master's boots, and, on a Sunday, 
her own. 
What if her hands for awhile were as black as 
the boots she was cleaning? 
They were the better for that — weapons of 
better defence: 
So that, if Robin should come and slyly offer to 
kiss her. 
Ere she has wash'd at the sink, ere she can 
rise from the floor. 
Up go her dangerous hands, and she cries * Mr. 
Robert, behave now ! 
* Else I shall give you a face black as a tinker's, 
like mine ! ' 



Curious, the ways of these folk of humble and 
hardy condition : 



22 DOROTHY. 

Kisses, amongst ourselves, bless me, how much 
they imply ! 
Ere you can come to a kiss, you must scale the 
whole gamut of courtship — 
Introduction first; pretty attentions and 
words ; 
Tentative looks ; and at length, perhaps the touch 
of a finger; 
Then the confession; and then (if she allow it) 
the kiss. 
So that a kiss comes last — 'tis the crown and seal 
of the whole thing; 
Passion avow'd by you, fondly accepted by 
her. 
But in our Dorothy's class, a kiss only marks the 
beginning: 
Comes me a light-hearted swain, thinking of 
nothing at all; 
Flings his fustian sleeve round the ample waist of 
the maiden; 
Kisses her cheek, and she — laughingly thrusts 
him away. 
Why, 'tis a matter of course ; every good-looking 
damsel expects it; 
'Tis but the homage, she feels, paid to her 
beauty by men : 



DOROTHY. 23 

So that, at Kiss-in-the-Ring — an innocent game 
and a good one — 
Strangers in plenty may kiss : nay, she pursues, 
in her turn. 
Not that our Dorothy did; though she went to 
the fair with her mistress: 
She was too grave for that, too unaccustom'd 
to play; 
But she stood by, with a smile, while the other 
girls fled from their partners. 
And she approved in her heart, when they were 
captured and kiss'd. 
Why did her heart thus approve ? It was not that 
she wanted a sweetheart; 
She never thought of such things — she, with 
her hands full of work ! 
And, there was no one to have : Mr. Robert was 
* meat for her betters ' ; 
He had a house of his own; and, though he 
often appear'd, 
Mary (for Ann had died), her master's delicate 
daughter — 
Mary, she thought, was his game : she was the 
sweetheart for him. 
True, he had once and again given Dolly a kiss 
or a fairing; 



24 DOROTHY. 

But she thought nothing of that — that was the 
way of the men : 
Haply he did it, she thought, because she belong'd 
to the Missis — 
Trying his hand on her, waiting for Mary 
awhile. 
Then, there was Billy the boy, who help'd her 
at times with the ladder, 
When she was busy aloft, cleaning the windows 
upstairs ; 
He was too young: he was rude: he would oft 
run away, and leave her 
High on the ladder alone, just when a cart was 
at hand ! 
As for Carter John, whom she help'd in the stable 
and cowhouse. 
He was a married man, weighted with women 
and bairns: 
So there was no one to have ; not a soul — except 
Mr. Robert — 
For with the village lads she had but little 
to do. 



Therefore, she went on her way, spring, summer, 
autumn, winter 



DOROTHY. 25 

Doing the season's work indoors and out, at the 
farm; 
Caring for little, save that, and the warm and 
equal affection 
She from a child had known — daughter and 
servant in one. 
Winter — she help'd old John, a-laying down 
straw for the cattle; 
Clean'd out the stable and byres, nothing afraid 
of the bull ; 
Help'd at the pig-killing too, and clean'd out the 
pigstye after; 
She never thought, not she, that was a trouble 
to do : 
Spring — she look'd after the lambs, and the 
calves that wanted suckling; 
Work'd in the fields too, a bit, cleaning the 
land, or at plough. 
Well can our Dorothy plough — as a girl, she 
learnt it and loved it; 
Leading the teams, at first, follow'd by Master 
himself; 
Then, when she grew to the height and the strength 
of a muscular woman, 
Grasping the stilts in her pride, driving the 
mighty machine. 



26 DOROTHY. 

Ah, what a joy for her, at early morn, in the 
springtime. 
Driving from hedge to hedge furrows as straight 
as a Hne ! 
Seeing the crisp brown earth, Hke waves at the 
bow of a vessel. 
Rise, curl over, and fall, under the thrust of thej 
share ; 
Orderly falling and still, its edges all creamy and 
crumbling. 
But, on the sloping side, polish'd and purple as 
steel ; 
Till all the field, she thought, looked bright as the 
bars of that gridiron 
In the great window at church, over the gentle- 
folks' pew: 
And evermore, as she strode, she has cheerful 
companions behind her; 
Rooks and the smaller birds, following after her 
plough ; 
And, ere the ridges were done, there was gossa- 
mer woven above them, 
Gossamer dewy and white, shining like foam on 
^ the sea. 

Well may she joy in such things, in the freedom 
of outdoor labour — 



DOROTHY. 27 

Freeborn lass that she is, fetter'd by Duty 
alone : 
Well may she do — being young, and healthy and 
hearty and fearless — 
Things that a town-bred girl dared not adven- 
ture at all. 
For, 'twas not ploughing alone; but she wrought 
with the hoe and the harrow. 
Drove the great waggon afield, carted and 
spread the manure; 
Mounted tall Dobbin or Dick, and rode him 
unharness'd to water. 
Riding, when no one was near, skilfully riding, 
astride. 
Yes — honi soit, if you please ! For the damsels 
of Brittany do it; 
So do the bonny Welsh girls, out in the vale of 
Llanrwst ; 
So, over half the world, does every one, gentle 
and simple, 
Women as well as the men — maidens and 
matrons and all. 
But in the Summer, again, from haytime till after 

the harvest, 
Mary was maid of the house: Dorothy, willing 
and strong, 



28 DOROTHY. 

Willing and strong as she was, could never do all 
that was wanted; 
Cleaning and baking must wait — Mary will 
do what she can : 
Dorothy's work is abroad — in the field, on the 
farm, in the dairy. 
Churning, milking of course, making of curds 
and of cheese ; 
Tending of cattle and swine, and haymaking 
down in the meadows 
Or up in Breakheart Field ; haymaking she with 
the rest. 



Child's play, you think, making hay? Why yes, 
when a dainty young lady 
Tosses a forkful or two, just for a froHc, in 
fun: 
Not when you work all day, from morning far 
into moonlight, 
Up and down the long rows, raking and forking 
away; 
Standing at last on the stack, and catching up 
hay from the waggon — 
That was our Dorothy's work ; ay, and she did 
it, and well ! 



DOROTHY. 29 

Also, when harvest was come, she work'd in the 
field with her sickle; 
Wheat, and barley, and beans fell to the sweep 
of her blade: 
She could keep up with the men at reaping, and 
binding, and stacking; 
She could keep up with the men; she could 
leave laggards behind. 
All through the sultry days, in the silent ranks 
of the reapers, 
Dorothy wrought like a man, keeping her time 
with the best; 
Earning her harvest wage — for her wages were 
doubled in harvest; 
Earning her bacon and bread under the hazels 
at noon. 
Brown grew her handsome face, her bare arms 
brown as the chestnut; 
She too, a labourer still, wrought in the sweat 
of her brow ; 
But, with her hair tied up in a handkerchief under 
her bonnet. 
And with her lilac frock kilted up gaily 
behind, 
She was a pleasure to see; and there was not a 
man of her fellows 



30 DOROTHY. 

Would not have snatch'd, if he dared, Dorothy's 
hard-working hand. 
But they all knew her; they knew, though she 
chatted and laugh'd like another, 
Neither refused her lips when the cool barrel 
went round, 
Yet she was proud of her work, and kept to 
herself like a lady — 
Awing a man by her strength, awing him more 
by her eyes. 
Therefore they let her alone — Mr. Robert was 
never among them — 
And she went free to the field ; free and un- 
aided, return'd. 
But on the last day of all, when the crop was 
housed, and the stubble 
All over Breakheart Field shone like a faint 
yellow haze; 
When every sheaf was bound, and the Harvest 
Home was approaching; 
Dorothy came not afield — for she was wanted 
within. 
Mistress and Mary alone could never accomplish 
the supper — 
Dorothy too must be there, helping to cook 
and to clean; 



DOROTHY. 31 

Furbishing knives and plates, and dusty old things 
from the storeroom — 
Crockery seldom used, kept for such banquets 
as this. 



Ah, what a time it is, that finishing day of the 
harvest ! 
When the last load comes home, joyously into 
the yard ; 
Labourers, women and men, all shouting and 
singing around it — 
Glad that their work is done; scenting the 
supper at last ! 
Labourers, women and men, come gathering in 
to that supper. 
Silent and shy at first, thinking of what there 
will be. 
What there will be to eat — for that is the prin- 
cipal question; 
Drink we are sure there will be — every one 
knows there is beer. 
Master himself sits first, with his wife and daugh- 
ter beside him ; 
Friends — Mr. Robert, perhaps — friends are 
the next in degree; 



32 DOROTHY. 

Then, Carter John and his spouse, and the shep- 
herd, and Davy the fiddler; 
Then, all the harvest folks, lads and their lasses 
arow: 
All expecting awhile the tender delights of the 
banquet ; 
Each one grasping a knife, eager at once to 
fall to. 
But, though the meal is served, and the guests 
have begun their enjoyment, 
Dorothy never sits down — she is too busy for 
that: 
She is still bustling about, her face on fire with 
labour. 
Waiting on this one and that, filling their mugs 
to the brim ; 
Washing up dishes and plates, or fetching hot 
things from the oven ; 
Active and ready and kind, caring for all but 
herself. 
Often they made her a place, crying * Dolly, why 
don't you sit down, lass?' 
Often her mistress call'd ' Dolly, the pudding's 
a-cold ! ' 
So that at last she sat down, on a bench at the 
foot of the table. 



DOROTHY. 33 

Emptied her plate and her mug, drank to a 
health with the rest; 
Eating as fast as she could — for she was the last, 
you remember — 
Thrusting her trencher away jauntily, when she 
had done ! 
Ah, poor ignorant girl, how shall we attempt to 
reform her? 
How shall we soften her hands, polish her rough 
rugged ways? 
How can we ever expect didicisse Jideliter 
arteSy 
So that her father's friends haply may notice 
his child? 
Yes, how indeed ! For, as soon as they tired of 
the 8aiTo<; itarjq, 
Dorothy sprang to her feet, lightly jump'd over 
the bench. 
Heaved it up under her arm, and another bench 
under the left arm. 
Swept off the plates in a trice, push'd the big 
table aside. 
Carried off dishes and mugs by armfuls into the 
end-house, 
Turn'd up her sleeves once more, girded herself 
to wash up. 

3 



34 DOliOTHY. 

E'en when the room was clear'd, and the couples 
all ranged for the dancing, 
Dorothy did not appear, she was too busy for 
that : 
And, in the scullery there, still washing and rins- 
ing and wiping, 
Who was it found her at last? Why, Mr. Rob- 
ert himself! 

* Dolly lass, what does thee mean — washing up, 

when the folks are a-playing? 

* Come to the kitchen with me ; I must have 

thee for a dance ! 

* How can thee stand like this, with the lads all 

romping and laughing — 

* Davy — why, hark to him now — scraping his 

fiddle like mad?' 

* Well, Mr. Robert,' said she, * I've finish'd my 

work, very nearly; 
*But I must clean myself first — then I will 
come, by-and-by. 

* And it is kind of you, very kind, to want me for 

the dancing; 
*For there's a many, you know, ought to be 
ax'd afore me. 

* What would my Missis say, if you did n't dance 

first wi' Miss Mary? 



DOROTHY. 35 

* May be you have, to be sure ; still, you should 

do it again : 
' Then, if you wish it, you know, you'll be certain 
to light o' me somewheres ; 

* But you must leave me just now, else I shall 

never get done.' 
Strangely he smiled, as she spoke, with his hands 
stuck into his pockets: 

* Well, thou's a hard-working wench, Dolly, my 

lass, I declare ! 

* But thou art something besides : don't thee know, 

thou art very good-looking? ' 

* Nay, Mr. Robert,' says she, ' don't you come 

joking at me ! * 

* Well, never mind — we shall see, by-and-by, when 

thou comes to the dancing: 

* If thee don't dance with me soon, George ! but 

I'll kiss thee again ! ' 
*Fie, Mr. Robert!' — And then she took off her 
clogs and her apron 
(Not till he'd gone, though), and wash'd; cool'd 
her hot face at the pump : 
Scrubb'd her rough hands and her arms with the 
floor brush, as if it was Sunday; 
Making them redder, indeed, but — for a labour- 
er's — clean : 



36 DOROTHY. 

Then she went lightly upstairs, to her own little 
loft in the attic ; 
Put on a clean cotton frock, brush'd out her 
bonny bright hair: 
Turn'd down her sleeves — for, you know, you 
ladies wear sleeves in a morning, 
Baring your arms but at night, just for the men 
to admire; 
But, with these working girls, bare arms are needed 
for labour; 
So, when the labour is done, sleeves are a sign 
of repose: 
Sleeves, too, are useful to hide — as Dorothy felt 
when she wore them — 
Workaday arms like hers, if there were gentle- 
folks near; 
Gentlefolks do so stare at the rough ruddy skin 
of a servant — 
Just as if she could have arms cover'd and cod- 
dled, like theirs ! 
Not that she knew much of that, for gentlefolks 
seldom came near her: 
But — Mr. Robert was there; he might object 
to her arms. 
Therefore she turn'd down her sleeves, rejoicing 
that such was the fashion; 



DOROTHY. 37 

Donn'd her white collar and cuffs — oh, what a 
luxury they ! 
Oh, what a contrast, too, to the sunburnt neck of 
the wearer. 
And to her strong red wrists, strengthen'd by 
holding the plough ! 
But when she look'd in the glass, there was some- 
thing, just then, to console her. 
Whether for rough red wrists, or for a throat 
that was tann'd : 
There was a rosy young face, as bright and as 
brown as a berry; 
Framed in its pale yellow hair, like a ripe nut 
in the sheath. 
And she beheld it, and smiled ; for she thought, 
after all, for a wonder, 
Brown as it was, he was right : some folks might 
think she was fair ! 
Think she was fair ? Yes, indeed ! she might 
easily pass for a lady, 
Judged by her features alone : but for her hard- 
working hands ; ' 
But for her tell-tale hands, so big and so broad — 
on the outside 
Rough as the bark of a tree, hard as its timber 
within. 



38 DOROTHY, 

Still, she had gloves, you suppose : at least on 
occasions of this sort? 
Gloves ? How our Dolly would laugh, if she 
could hear you say that ! 
Rarely on Sundays at church, and certainly not 
on a week day, 
Had she worn gloves in her life : why, she had 
never a pair! 
Stay — she had one: men's size; they had once 
belong'd to her father: 
Gentlemen's gloves : so of course they were too 
little for her. 
Gloves ! You might almost as soon see her 
scented with lavender water; 
Using a silk parasol; wearing a muff, or a 
veil ! 
And, when that pert little Poll, who likes dress- 
making better than service, 
Sewing at White Rose Farm, said to our Doro- 
thy once — 

* How can you do with such hands, a nice-looking 

creature as you are? 
'Spoilt like an ostler's with work — how can 
you let 'em be seen?' 

* How can I let 'em be seen ? ' says Dorothy, * how 

can I help it? 



DOROTHY. 39 

* Me that must work for my bread morning and 

night, as I do? 

* Nobody sees 'em, you know, except master and 

missis and Mary; 

* Well, Mr. Robert, perhaps ; he must be used to 

'em now. 

* But if they did, what o' that? I'm sure they may 

see 'em and welcome: 

* See 'em, and feel if they like ; then they'll find 

out if they're hard ! 

* Why, when we stand to be hired — farm-wenches, 

I mean, such as I am — 

* Up at the Martlemas Fair, don't they look first 

at our hands? 

* Ay, and the lass 'at has hands showing work as 

plainly as mine does 
^ She gets the Godspenny first — she is the one 
they would choose. 

* Spoilt y did you say? Well, I know I reckon my 

hands is my fortune : 

* Fm not ashamed of 'em — no, nor of the work 

they can do ! ' 
Such was her argument still ; she was not ashamed 
of her calling. 
Nor of its outward signs — homely, uncouth, 
if they were; 



40 DOROTHY. 

She was contented : * Because she had never known 
a7iy thing better?' 
Lucky for her, I should say, not to know any- 
thing worse ! 
And she had known nothing worse than a simple 
and innocent girlhood, 
Spent among rural scenes, country delights and 
employ: 
Under a kindhearted dame, amid cheerful and 
lowly companions. 
Fond of their life, like her; caring for little 
beyond. 
Regular open-air work, and home-made food in 
abundance, 
Strengthen'd her spirit and frame, straighten'd 
her lusty young limbs ; 
So that at length she was fit for her place as a 
wife and a mother — 
Mother of men like herself; Englishmen, sturdy 
and tall. 



Ah, but whose wife will she be? That is still 
but a faraway question. 
Since she has never allow'd even a sweetheart, 
as yet: 



DOROTHY. 41 

And we have left her alone, this long, long while, 
in her attic. 
Her, who could put on her things, bonnet and 
all, in a trice ! 
So that in five minutes' time she was down in the 
spacious old kitchen. 
Just with a blush on her cheek, feeling it strange 
to be thus : 
Just with a bright red blush through her brown 
skin melting and glowing. 
Like to a sunrise in spring, mask'd by dun 
clouds of the dawn. 
'Here is our Dolly!' cried one; and 'Dolly's 
come back ! ' said another : 
So they were pleased, it appear'd, when she 
came into the room. 
Even her mistress spoke ; saying, ' Master shall 
handsel thee, Dolly ! ' 
* Ay,' said her goodman, ' I will ; Dolly, my girl, 
come along ! ' 
Ere she could think, they were off; the strong in 
the grasp of the stronger: 
Down the long dance, and again up to the top, 
and away ! 
And at the end, when he turn'd, and kiss'd her 
cheek for remembrance, 



42 DOROTHY. 

That was an honour indeed ! Missis had noticed 
it, too : 
* Father ! ' she laughingly said, * is thou kissing our 
Dolly before me?' 
* Ay ! ' cried the cheery old man ; * wife, here's 
another for thee ! * 
So they all laugh'd, sitting round; and Dolly 
stood panting beside them, 
Stood with her hands on her hips, taking it 
easy awhile. 
Taking it easy — and yet looking furtively round 
at the dancers, 
When the next dance began: just to see who 
might be there ; 
Who might be dancing with whom — Mr. Robert, 
no doubt, with Miss Mary; 
Yes — there she was in his arms, looking as 
pleased as a bride ! 
Dorothy too was pleased, to see them so happy 
together — 
Yes, for 'He's doing,' she thought, 'just what 
I ax'd him to do : ' 
So, she was pleased, of course ; but when Jump- 
ing Jack from the village 
Came with a sheepish smile, ask'd her to foot 
it with him, 



DOROTHY, 43 

Somehow, she wish'd in her heart that she had 
the luck of Miss Mary; 
Born in the regular way, sure to inherit a 
farm. 
Still, she forgot all that, when Jumping Jack, in 
his wild way, 
Gallop'd all over the floor, keeping her gallop- 
ing too ; 
Stamping and ramping about, through the bois- 
terous crowded kitchen ; 
Envied, by some for his skill, and for his partner 
by all. 

* Eh, you're a good 'un ! ' he said ; for Dorothy 

thoroughly enjoy'd it: 

Quiet and grave as she was, careless of pleas- 
ures like this, 
Once they had enter'd the dance, she was carried 
away by excitement; 

Proving herself, here too, strongest and swiftest 
of all. 
Yet she was wearied at last : * Oh, Jack, this is 
harder than threshing ! 

* Pull up, my lad, for a bit — let's get our breath, 
and sit down : 

* Eh, how Pm blown, to be sure ! it's fit to try any 

one, this is ! 



44 DOROTHY. 

* Take some one else, now do ; Missis '11 want 

me, I'm sure.' 
Thus, with a smile, she prevail'd ; and he saun- 
ter'd away to another. 
Saying 'I'll clip her again; Dolly's the market 
for me ! ' 
So said the men, every one, though they couldn't 
all deal at that market; 
Nay, even women approved — all but a critical 
few: 
Such as the two Misses Smith; but they were a 
tradesman's daughters ; 
She, a farm-servant, indeed ! what could they 
care about herf 

* Look at her moggany face,' said Tabitha Smith 

to Jemima, 

' Shining with 'eat, I declare — ay, she is wipin' 
it now ! 
'Wipin' 'er face, did ye see, wi' the hend of 'er 
large white hapron ; 

'My! what a hignorant thing — isn't she vul- 
gar, oh no ! ' 

* Yes,' said Jemima, ' to think of 'er 'avin' a hapron 

to dance in ! 

* Them sort o' girls never knows what a young 

lady should wear: 



DOROTHY. 45 

* Look at 'er great coarse 'ands — why, a 'edger's 

gloves wouldn't fit 'em — 
' Spread on her knees like paws ; sure, she 
might 'ide 'em, for once ! * 
So spake the two Misses Smith; fastidious, fine- 
spoken damsels, 
Proudly aware as their Pa baked the best bread 
for the 'All: 
Also that pert little Poll, with her dressmaking 
gewgaws about her, 
Wonder'd how Dolly could bear dressing as 
plain as she did : 
Never a sprig in her hair, nor a bit of a bow on 
her bosom — 
Only an apron, you know; only a clean cotton 
frock ! 
As for the apron, well — one could overlook that, 
in a servant; 
She had her work to do, after the dancing was 
done: 

* But,' said the pert little Poll, ' as her 'ands is so 

very 'ardworking, 
* She might 'ave 'id 'em, this once ; might ha' 
wore mittens, at least.' — 



46 DOROTHY. 

Thus while our Dorothy fared with the witty and 
wise of her own sex, 
She neither heeded nor heard : sitting alone by 
the wall — 
Sitting and smiling alone, still fanning herself with 
her apron, 
Or with her hands on her lap ; resting, enjoying 
repose. 
Not very long, though ; for soon Mr. Robert came 
silently towards her: 
'Dolly,' said he with a smile, 'where is thy 
promise to me?' * 

' Nay, Mr. Robert, I'm sure I never said nothing 
to promise ; 
'Still, if you want me, I'll come — I'll do the 
best as I can.' 
'Ay, and that's better than best! Don't you 
know you're the Queen o' the evening, 
' None is so clever to dance, none so good- 
looking, as thee ! 
' Every one says so, indeed ; why, even the lasses 
confess it: 
' Dolly o' White Rose Farm — none but our 

Dolly '11 do ! ' 
' Oh, Mr. Robert,' cried she, ' how can you go 

talking i' that way? 



DOROTHY. 47 

* Making such fun o' poor me — you, 'at knows 

well what I am ! 

* Me, in a plain cotton frock, and nothing to 

cover my hands with — 
' Really, you shouldn't talk so ; really, you 
shouldn't indeed ! 

* Them 'at works hard all day can't think to look 

well of an evening; 

* Thafs for a lady to do, not for a servant like 

me: 

* If I am strong, well and good — I want it, to 

work for my living: 

* But, to be beautiful — no ! Don't you come 

speaking o' tJiat ! ' — 
Thus while she hurriedly spake, disclaiming with 
passionate ardour 
Praise that another such girl sure would be 
proud to receive. 
And while her large blue eyes shone forth on 
him, moist as the morning 
When every flower and leaf seems running over 
with dew; 
He too was startled and changed ; and * Dolly,' 
he said, * is thee serious? 
' What, does thee think me a brute, joking and 
gaping at ^/leef 



48 DOROTHY. 

* Nay, it was true, every word ! But since thou 

takes on so about it, 

* Better a million times I had said nothing at 

all! 
'Why should it fret thee, my lass? Is it wrong to 
be beautiful, think you? 

* Some would give half 6' their ears, if one could 

say it o' them ! 

* And, for thy strength, and that — why, we all of 

us know thou's a wonder; 

* So, if thou won't be the Queen, thou shalt be 

champion of all. 

* Come, wipe thy eyes, and get up ! else the Mas- 

ter and Missis '11 notice — 

* Bless me, the dance is half done — come, let's 

be off and away ! ' 
Dorothy smiled through her tears, as he flung his 
arm lightly around her — 

* Oh, Mr. Robert,' she said, * don't you think 

badly o' me ; 

* You meant it well, Sir, I know ; but I hate to be 

told I'm good-looking: 
'For — it was that, don't you know, ruin'd poor 
mother, and me ! ' 
Ah, and so this was his crime — and she knew 
of her origin, did she? 



DOROTHY. 49 

Robin himself knew it well ; every one knew it, 
indeed ; 
But, that she knew it herself, and felt it so strangely 
and deeply. 
That was a new thing to him, never suspected 
before. 
Who would have thought there could be in the 
heart of so lowly a maiden 
Such a fine fibre as this — such an extravagant 
shame ? 
She, a chance-child on a farm ! If her wages and 
victuals were found her. 
Why should she care for her birth? What could 
she know of disgrace? 
So thought Robin — a man of a calm, unimpres- 
sible temper. 
Slow to receive new ideas ; strong as a vice, to 
retain : 
So did he ponder and think, as they whirl'd up 
and down in the dancing, 
Silent ; and she too was grave, mute with respect 
and amaze ; 
For she kept thinking ' Oh dear, I wish I had not 
been so silly; 
* Surely he's angry wi' me — surely he thinks 
me a fool ! ' 

4 



50 DOROTHY. 

' Dolly's in luck,' said one, ' to ha' got Mr. George 
for a partner ! ' 
'Ay,' said another, 'but see — see, lass, how 
solemn they are ! 

* He never smiles, never jumps, never freshens her 

up to a gallop : 
' Eh, it was different just now, when she was 

mated wi' Jack ! ' 
Every one noticed the pair; so seldom together, 

so silent; 
Every one noticed, and spake after his kind and 

degree : 

* Well,' said a girl, * Robert George had better ha' 

stuck to Miss Mary; 
* Dolly's no fellow for him — why does he take 
up wi' herf 
But, as the dance went on, Mr. Robert grew better 
and brighter; 
Stepp'd with a heartier step; said a few kind 
civil words ; 
Said a few welcome words, so that Dorothy bright- 
en'd up also, 
Moved with a livelier grace, trusted the more 
to his arm ; 
And, when the music ceased, and he kiss'd her 
cheek for remembrance. 



DOROTHY. 51 

Oh, how she started and blush'd all through her 
ruddy brown skin ! 
Just as you sometimes see, in clear bronze streams 
of the moorland, 
Gleams of a rosy light caught from the wester- 
ing sun; 
So did she blush; and her heart felt happy and 
light in a moment — 
Yes, all along of a kiss often rejected be- 
fore ! 
But it was different now : 'twas the token, now, of 
remembrance ; 
Friendly remembrance : and that — that was the 
thing she desired. 
So, when he said ' I must go — I must say good 
night to the Missis; 

* But I shall drink your health : Dolly, lass, get 

me some beer — 
' Ay, and draw some for thyself, thee must be quite 
dry wi' the dancing: 

* Be in the larder, thou knows, just by the stable- 

yard door : ' 
So (for 'twas part of her work, to fetch up the 
beer from the cellar. 
Filling the kegs and the jugs, handing the tan- 
kards around) 



52 DOROTHY. 

Even that homely request to her had nothing 
offensive ; 
Neither seem'd out of its place, e'en in so ten- 
der a time. 
Nay, she felt flatter'd and pleased ; she flew to the 
best of the barrels, 
Fill'd the great jug — took it up — froth'd it, 
in Master's own mug; 
And, in a trice, he was there — he was with her — 
he took it, and thank'd her — 
Drank to her very good health, drank to their 
meeting again. 
*■ Now then,' he said, ' I am off! But Dolly, this 
isn't a parting; 
* I shall be back by-and-by — back with Sir 
Harry, thou knows ; 
* And, for the present, my lass, there's one thing 
I wanted to tell thee : 
*I never knew what thou was, never — so help 
me — till now ! ' 



They two were standing alone; and her stable- 
lantern beside him 
Lighted her figure and face, leaving his own in 
the shade : 



DOROTHY. 53 

* Dolly, shake hands ! ' he exclalm'd ; and his 

voice was all of a tremble : 
She too, so tall and so strong, quiver'd and 
shook as he spake: 

* Dolly, shake hands ! ' — She was dazed, she 

hardly knew what she was doing — 
Blindly she gave him her hand ; firmly he took 
it and held : 
Grasp'd it, and look'd at it oft ; caress'd the rough 
back, and the fingers 
Crooked and stiffen'd with toil; gazed on the 
colourless palm ; 
She looking at him the while, and wondering 
much why he did it; 
Wondering what he could mean, why he should 
care for her hands. 
For, though she was not ashamed to have hands 
like these, it was only — 
Only because they were signs, instruments, 
symbols, of work : 
Not for themselves, oh no ! for she knew very 
well they were ugly; 
Ugly in gentlefolk's eyes : what did that matter 
to her? 
' Girls 'at has nothing to do may have little 
white fingers, and welcome; 



54 DOROTHY. 

* What could a soft little hand do for a servant 

like me?' 
That was her creed; and she knew Mr. Robert 

lived much among grand folks; 
Housekeepers, smart ladies' maids bristling all 

over with pride: 
* Yes, he must know very well, even kitchenmaids, 

up at the Squire's, 

* Haven't got hands like mine ; he must be 

thinking it, now ! ' 
Oh then, how startled she was, how she blush'd 

to the height of her forehead, 
When, with her hand still in his, holding it up 

to the light. 
All of a sudden, he stoop'd, and kissd it — eagerly 

kiss'd it — 
Kiss'd that cold grey palm, cooling his lips with 

the horn ! 
' Oh, Mr. Robert ! ' she cried,* ' oh, Sir ! how 

could you? how can you? 
'Kissing a hand like mine — how can you 

shame yourself so?' 
'Shame myself, Dolly?' said he; * yes, it shames 

me a little, to see thee, 

* * Wie kannt Ihr sie nur kiissen ? 
Sie ist so garstig, ist so rauh ! ' 



DOROTHY, 55 

* TheCy with such hands as these, just Hke a 

labouring man's ! 

* Man's, did I say? Why, these are a many times 

coarser nor mine are ; 

* Mine are not hard — but see, see, they are 

brown, though, Hke thine ! 

* But, I am thirty ; and thee, I know thou art 

scarce over twenty: 

* Heavens ! what work thou hast done ! oh, 

what a deal to go through ! 
/ * Well, they are honest hard hands ; and thou 
ought to be proud on 'em, Dolly; 

* Proud on 'em, lass, dost hear? Don't let 

folks make thee ashamed — 

* Don't be ashamed, not a bit, even if they was 

laid by a lady's: 

* Wait till I kiss 'em again ! Dolly, God bless 

thee — good-bye ! ' 



Gone? He was gone; and she stood gazing 
after him out of the doorway. 
All in a trance, as it were; scarce knowing 
how she got there ! 

But when she came to herself, she held up her 
hand to the lantern, 



56 DOROTHY. 

Look'd at its hard grey palm, kiss'd it — the 
very same place — 
Kiss'd it, and fray'd her soft lips with the touch 
of its rough rugged edges; 
Kiss'd it, and thought, 'What a hand, thiSy to 
have kisses from him ! ' 
Ay, and with that came tears; not of shame for 
a thing so unsightly. 
No, nor of love — not quite: but of great joy, 
and of pride: 
Pride, that she was not despised ; that even a hand 
such as hers was 
Thus had been kiss'd, and by him — by Mr. 
Robert, you know ! 
Joy, too, great joy, at his words : he had said that 
she never should mind it, 
Nay, should be proud, he had said, both of her 
work and her hands ; 
And (for in spite of herself, 'twas a thing she was 
fain to rejoice in) 
Said he was coming back soon ; said, he should 
do it again ! 
She had thought thus of her work, but seldom 
had ventured to speak it; 
Knowing what others would say — chiefly, that 
pert little Poll; 



DOROTHY. 57 

Now, it was true ! he had said : and she held them 
both up, in her folly. 
Held up her two coarse hands, look'd at them 
fondly — and sigh'd ! 
Sigh'd — for she thought, after all, they could 
never be fit to be his hands, 
Even if he — and she paused : ' Oh, what a 
silly am I ! ' 



Whether it was — who knows? that her conscience 
was pricking within her, 
Or 'twas her mistress's voice, hurriedly calling 
her name; 
Sudden she dropp'd her hands, and rush'd to the 
pump in the corner; 
Cool'd her wet eyes and her face, made herself 
sprightly again ; 
Ran to the kitchen door, but open'd it slowly 
and calmly. 
Making as if it was naught, all that had hap- 
pen'd just now: 
All she had heard and seen, the tumult and whirl 
of her feelings — 
Making as if it was naught : Ah, what a hypo- 
crite, she ! 



58 DOROTHY, 

* Dolly, where have you been?' said the Missis, 

half rising to meet her; 
' Master's been calling o' you, wanting the key 
o' the beer ! 
'Why, all the folks has just gone, and nobody 
here to attend 'em ! 

* What was you doing, and why didn't you 

answer afore ? ' — 

* I never heard, ma'am, I sure ! I never heard 

Master a-calling, 
'I never thought it was time — surely I haven't 
been long? 
'I've been a-fetching of beer — Mr. Robert, he 
sent me to draw it — 

* Said he could do with a glass — told me to 

get it — and so, 

* So, ma'am, I fill'd him the jug — I knew you 

and Master 'ud wish it; 

* Brought it, and waited a bit — just till he'd 

drunk it and gone.' — 
Such was her story; and oh, how many a story 

of passion 
Wears such a probable face, is so untruthfully 

true ! 
Simpletons, not to have seen that her face was 

redder than ever, 



DOROTHY. 59 

And that her eyes look'd down while she was 
telHng the tale ! 
But, as they both knew well she was honest and 
good, they believed her: 
Only, they thought it strange, he should have 
kept her so long. 
'Beer?' said her master, 'of course! you was 
right to get beer for him, Dolly, 

* Still, I do wonder, wife, he never ax'd it o' 

me!' 
' Tut ! never mind,' said the dame : ' get along, 

get along to your work, girl ! 
' Put out the lights — lock the doors — quick, 

and be off to your bed ! 
' Things may be left all night ; but mind you're 

up early to-morrow — 

* Oh, what a clearing there '11 be ! Oh, what a 

mess they have made ! ' — 
Thankfully, Dolly obey'd ; did her work, and ran 
up to her attic; 
Lightly undress'd, said her prayers, jump'd into 
bed, and lay down; 
Lay in her small truckle bed, with the sloping 
roof just above her; 
Lay for a moment, and then — then, was asleep, 
like a child. 



60 DOROTHY. 



'TwAS but a poor little room; a farm-servant's 
loft in a garret; 
One small window and door; never a chimney 
at all: 
One little stool by the bed, and a remnant of 
cast-away carpet: 
But on the floor, by the wall, carefully dusted 
and bright. 
Stood the green-painted box, our Dorothy's closet 
and wardrobe, 
Holding her treasures, her all — all that she 
own'd in the world ! 
Linen and hosen were there, coarse linen and 
home-knitted hosen; 
Handkerchiefs bought at the fair, aprons and 
smocks not a few; 
Kirtles for warmth when afield, and frocks for 
winter and summer, 
Blue-spotted, lilac, grey; cotton and woollen 
and serge ; 
All her simple attire, save the clothes she felt 
most like herself in — 
Rough coarse workaday clothes, fit for a la- 
bourer's wear. 



. DOROTHY. 6 1 

There was her Sunday array — the boots, and 
the shawl, and the bonnet. 
Solemnly folded apart, not to be lightly as- 
sumed: 
There was her jewelry too ; 'twas a brooch (she 
had worn it this evening) 
Made of a cairngorm stone — really too splen- 
did for her ! 
Which on a Martlemas Day Mr. Robert had 
bought for a fairing: 
Little she thought, just then, how she would 
value it now ! 
As for her sewing gear, her housewife, her big 
brass thimble, 
Knitting and suchhke work, such as her fingers 
could do, 
That was away downstairs, in a dresser-drawer in 
the kitchen, 
Ready for use of a night, when she was tidied 
and clean. 
Item, up there in the chest were her books; TJie 
Dairyman' s Daughter: 
Ballads : The Olney Hymns : Bible and Prayer- 
book, of course : 
That was her library; these were the limits of 
Dorothy's reading; 



62 DOROTHY. 

Wholesome, but scanty indeed : was it then all 
that she knew? 
Nay, for like other good girls, she had profited 
much by her schooling 
Under the mighty three — Nature, and Labour, 
and Life : 
Mightier they than books; if books could have 
only come after, 
Thoughts of instructed minds filtering down 
into hers. 
That was impossible now; what she had been, 
she was, and she would be; 
Only a farm-serving lass — only a peasant, I 
fear! 



Well — on that green-hdded box, her name was 

painted in yellow; 
Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump? what 

a horrible name ! 
Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like the 

box) 'twas her mother's; 
Ready to hand — though of course she had no 

joy in the name: 
She had no kin — and indeed, she never had 

needed a surname; 



DOROTHY. 63 

Never had used one at all, never had made one 
her own : 
'Dolly' she was to herself, and to every one else 
she was * Dolly ' ; 
Nothing but 'Dolly'; and so, that was enough 
for a name. 
Thus then, her great green box, her one undoubted 
possession. 
Stood where it was ; like her, ' never went no- 
where ' at all ; 
Waited, perhaps, as of old some beautiful Floren- 
tine bride-chest, 
Till, in the fulness of time. He, the Beloved, 
appears. — 
Was there naught else in her room? nothing handy 
for washing or dressing? 
Yes; on a plain deal stand, bason, and ewer, 
and dish: 
All of them empty, unused ; for the sink was the 
place of her toilet; 
Save on a Sunday — and then, she too could 
dress at her ease : 
Then, by the little sidewall of the diamonded 
dormer-window 
She at a sixpenny glass brush'd out her bonny 
bright hair. 



64 DOROTHY. 

Ah, what a poor Httle room ! Would you like to 
sleep in it, ladies? 
Innocence sleeps there unharm'd ; Honour, and 
Beauty, and Peace — 
Love, too, has come ; and with these, even dun- 
geons were easily cheerful: 
But, for our Dorothy's room, it is no dungeon 
at all. 
No ! through the latticed panes of the diamonded 
dormer-window 
Dorothy looks on a world free and familiar and 
fair: 
Looks on the fair farmyard, where the poultry 
and cattle she lives with 
Bellow and cackle and low — music delightful 
to her; 
Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloud-shadows 
flying above them, 
Singing of birds in the air, woodlands and wa- 
ters around. 
She in those fragrant meads has wrought, every 
year of her girlhood ; 
Over those purple lands she, too, has follow'd 
the plough; 
And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is yean'd 
in the meadows. 



DOROTHY. 65 

She, to herself and to us, seems Hke a part of 
it all. 



What is she dreaming of now? for the moon is 
up, and I see her 
Laid in her small truckle bed under the bright- 
colour'd quilt — 
Under the patchwork quilt, all cunningly fitted 
together, 
Made of her old cotton frocks, made by herself 
long ago. 
Ah, 'tis a dream of to-day, of its arduous joys and 
its wonders; 
All that has happen'd, and much — much that 
is yet for to come ! 
Do we not know that in dreams we are ever fore- 
casting the future, 
Framing out things that should be, though they 
may never come true? 
Such was our Dorothy's dream : she sat on her 
box in a waggon, 
Right through the village, and then up to the 
Castle itself; 
For she had even attain'd to a scuU'ry-maid's 
place at the Squire's — 
5 



Co DOROTHY. 

Oh, what a rise in the world ! Oh, what an 
honour, for her ! 
And with her heart in her mouth, as she enter'd 
the house by the kitchens. 
Wonderful footmen around titter'd and stared 
at her ways ; 
Just as they really had done, when she, going 
once with the butter. 
Stood such a while at the door, fearful of all 
she beheld. 
Then, in her dream, she was sent — to be seen, 
and inspected, and order'd. 
Straight to the housekeeper's room : silent, she 
stood by the door; 
Curtsey'd, and stood by the door, feeling ever so 
frighten'd and awkward, 
While Mrs. Jellifer sat giving her awful com- 
mands. 
But, in the morning, it seem'd, when Dolly was 
cleaning the kitchen. 
Just risen up from her knees, cleaning and 
working away. 
Who should come in at the door but My Lady — 
My Lady Sophia, 
Mistress of that great House, daughter (they 
said) to a Lord ! 



DOROTHY. 67 

She, who so seldom was here, except at the shoot- 
ing in autumn, 
She, the great lady herself, came to the kitchen 
alone ! 
Oh, how our Dorothy blush'd and curtsey'd and 
flutter'd and trembled. 
Suddenly thus to be seen by such a Missis 
as that ! 
Thus, in her working clothes, with her tell-tale 
hands, and her bare arms, 
Standing unable to fly, fix'd by that masterful 
gaze: 
For with a masterful gaze the Lady Sophia sur- 
vey'd her. 
Looking (she look'd so in church) stately and 
cold, like a ghost. 

* Girl, who are you ? ' said the Dame ; ' you are 

not the new scuU'ry-maid, surely? 
*What, have they let you come here straight 
from a common farmhouse? 

* Look at your face, and your arms ! and your 

hands are as coarse as a ploughman's — 
* Yotc are not fit to wash up dishes and plates 
such as mine : 
*Send Mrs. Jellifer here! ' — But, just as the cul- 
prit was going, 



68 DOROTHY. 

Lo, Mr. Robert appear'd; started, yet was not 
afraid ; 
Was not ashamed of her^ for, touching his brow 
to my Lady, 
Sudden he sprang to her side, seized her rough 
hand, and began — 
Ah, and what was it he said ? For, alas ! we have 
lost it for ever: 
E'en at that critical time, e'en at the point of 
her dream. 
Came through the diamonded panes, 'twixt the 
bhnd and the window, a sunbeam; 
Lighted on Dorothy's face, melted her fancies 
away. 
'What was he going to tell?' cried Dorothy, 
starting and waking: 
'Oh, it was only a dream — why, there's the 
sun, I declare ! 
' Missis, she told me last night I must sure to be 
early this morning — 
' Eh, if she should be up first, won't she be 
angry wi' me ! ' 
Lightly she sprang out of bed, and flung on her 
clothes in a moment; 
Lightly she ran downstairs, all but forgetting 
her prayers; 



DOROTHY. 69 

And by the kitchen clock it was half past five, 
to a minute : 
So, she was not very late; nobody else was 
astir. 



Thus then, at half past five, her day was begun, 
and her labour: 
Opening of windows and doors, cleaning of 
grates and of hearths; 
Wiping of settles and chairs, and sweeping and 
swilling and scouring. 
Everywhere over the house, half through a long 
summer day. 
Is it not sad, do you think, to see Dorothy drudg- 
ing and scouring. 
Scrubbing the dirty floor, where she had danced 
like a guest? 
Prone on her hands and knees, crawling under 
the tables and benches. 
She, who was praised overnight, she, who was 
Queen of the ball? 
Well — not a thought of all this ever enter'd the 
head of our Dolly: 
Work was her daily dehght; hoHdays seldom 
and few; 



70 DOROTHY. 

And, though she liked them right well, she 
thought of them, too, as a servant — 
One who must buy with her hands all the 
brief bliss she enjoy'd, 
As she was buying it now : by cleaning and tidy- 
ing after; 
Mending what others had marr'd ; setting their 
chaos to rights. 



You, who are fair, who are belles, who glitter all 
night in your triumph. 
Breakfasting late the next day, tended and 
dress'd by a maid, 
How would you care for a ball, if you had to be 
up in the morning 
Doing what Dorothy did — ay, and perforce, 
and for hire? — 
Oh, what a difference it makes, being a lady, or 
only a woman ! 
Dorothy knew it quite well — she was a woman, 
you know — 
She, though she seldom had seen and never had 
talk'd with a lady, 
6"^^ understood it; and thought — what? That 
she wouldfit exchange. \ 



DOROTHY. 71 

Thought that she wouldn't exchange her life for 
the life of a lady; 
Wouldn't give up what she was, not to be ever 
so fine ! 
Ah, poor thing! you perceive it was ignorance 
saved her from envy — 
Envy of all we possess, culture and leisure and 
wealth : 
Had she but known of these things, and the joys 
and the lovers they bring us, 
She would have prick'd up her ears, she would 
have wish'd for them too ! 
No, I think not ; for you see, she was busy with 
things that are useful : 
Every-day duties, I mean — such as are always 
to do. 
But there was one thing she wish'd : that she 
could have been, like Miss Mary, 
Blest with a nice little sum, if she should hap- 
pen to wed. 
Oh, how prosaic ! Of course, you and I never 
think of such matters : 
We are too cultured for that ; we always marry 
for love : 
Love? Why, 'twas that, and naught else, made 
her wish for a trumpery fortune, 



^2 DOROTHY, 

Just to outweigh, so she thought, all that was 

poor in herself; 
So that — whoever he was — the man that should 

seek her a-wooing, 
Might be contented, perhaps ; might not repent 

of his choice. 



And, it was strange — but to-day, when her clean- 
ing and scrubbing were over, 
When she was tidied and wash'd, ready to go 
to the farm, 
As she went forth with her pails to call up the 
kine for the milking 
(She was too throng in the morn, Billy had 
done it instead) 
As she came back down the lane, with the meek 
cows walking before her, 
There was Miss Mary herself! 'Dolly,' she 
said, ' is it you? 

* Oh, I'm so glad we're alone ! For there's some- 

thing I wanted to ax' you — 
' Something I couldn't, at home — mother is 
always about. 

* Father, he says it was you saw him off when he 

went — Mr. Robert; 



DOROTHY. 73 

*Tell me, now, what did he say? Did he say 

where he was gone ? ' 
Dolly look'd up; and she thought — yes, she 

thought her young Missis was blushing. 
Then she look'd down ; and she felt ' I must be 

honest, and tell — 
'Not the whole truth — not now — that wouldn't 

be nice, nor respectful; 
*But, just a little at least; something, at least, 

that is true.' 

* Yes, it was me saw him off; for he sent me to 

fetch it, Miss Mary — 
'Sent me to fetch him the beer, just as he 
started to go. 

* And, when he went, he did say — for of course 

I should never have ax'd him — 

* He was to go with the Squire, off with Sir 

Harry, to shoot.' 
'Gone with Sir Harry, he is? Oh, Dolly, he 
might ha' told me, then ! 

* That wasn't like him, you know ; that wasn't 

friendly or kind ! 
' Dolly, you're more of a friend, a sister almost, 
nor a servant; 

* Else I could almost think he was a-courting 

of you ! ' 



74 DOROTHY. 

* Me, Miss ! ' (she always said Miss^ though many 

a farm-servant does not; 
If she obeys, 'tis enough; no one expects any 
more) — 

* Me, Miss! why should he? What, Jiim^ head- 

gamekeeper up at the Squire's, 

* Him come a-courting a girl hasn't a penny, 

like me? 

* No — if you want him indeed, Miss Mary, of 

course you've a right to, 

* If he can have such as you, why should he 

humble to me f ' 
'Want him?' said Mary, * oh no ! I wouldn't 
be wanting of no man : 

* They shall come just as they will, them 'at 

comes courting to me. 
' Still, I did think — but indeed, when I look at 
you, Dolly, I don't know — 

* Yours is a sweet pretty face, better nor mine 

by a deal: 

* Why, if you wasn't so brown and so big, they'd 

call you a beauty; 

* Some folks call you it now — yes, I have heard 

'em myself! 

* And for hard work and that, you're a many times 

stronger nor I am ; 



DOROTHY, 75 

* I am so weak and so pale — what good am / 

on a farm ? ' 

* Never you mind about that, Miss Mary ! You 

needn't do nothing, 

* You'll have your father's brass ; you needn't 

work like a slave, 

* You are a Missis ; and me — well, I'm used to 

hard work, and I like it; 

* I am a servant, and strong ; that's right enough, 

to be sure ! 

* As for my looks, don't you know I hate to be 

told o' such nonsense; 

* Let me but fend for myself; sweethearts is 

nothing to me ! 

* Still,' cried poor Dolly — * oh dear ! I wish you 

had never have named him ! 

* How can I tell what he thinks ? How can I 

help what he does? 

* But, you was always so kind — more like some- 

thing else nor a Missis — 

* Seems, I am not doing right, not to be telling 

you all. 

* Well then, he did just talk a little bit out o' the 

common, 

* When he was going, last night, when he was 

wishing good-bye ' 



^6 DOROTHY. 

* Yes/ said Mary, * I knew, I knew there was some- 

thing to speak of! 

* Tell me, lass, don't be afraid — tell me, and 

what did he do ? ' 

* Well, Miss, there's nothing to tell — it seems such 

a strange thing to talk on — 

* Praising such hands as mine — how can one 

think what he meant? 

* Still, he did praise 'em, and said ' — she dared 

not say he had kiss'd them — 

* Said, they was good hard hands ; he didn't 

mind 'em at all ! ' 

* Praising your hands ! ' said her friend, * Oh, 

Dolly, what can you be thinking? 

* Men Hke a hand' — and she look'd, fondly 

perhaps, at her own — 
*Men hke a hand 'at is white, and little, and 
soft, in a woman; 

* Praising such hands as yours — that has no 

meaning o' love ! ' 
Ruefully, Dolly replied, 'Maybe not; but I 
thought as he liked 'em; 

* So I was pleased, of course ; no one had 

praised 'em afore ! 

* But it was silly, I know ; an' I do wish y'ou 

hadn't ha' named him. 



DOROTHY. 7J 

*Tell me, Miss Mary — now do — wouldn't you 
like him yourself? ' 
Here was a question, indeed, for one girl to put 
to another ! 
Mary look'd up, with a smile, straight into 
Dorothy's eyes : 
Straight into Dolly's blue eyes that were eager 
and moist with emotion, 
Brimming all over with — yes ! Mary perceived 
it — with love. 
She was a commonplace girl, but a kind and 
a tender, was Mary: 
Older than Dorothy, too ; older, and wiser by 
far; 
For she had been at a school, had kept up the 
thread of her learning, 
Long after Dolly's broad hands came to be 
harden'd with work; 
She had been out in the world — her uncle, the 
prosperous grocer, 
Ask'd her sometimes to the town, show'd her 
its wonderful ways, 
Show'd her its smart young men, its giggling, 
gossiping misses, 
Drest in the newest guise fresh from great 
London itself. 



yS DOROTHY. 

She was a commonplace girl: no tremulous 
passionate ardours 
Troubled her small quiet soul, safe in the 
shallows of hfe; 
And she was kind : she could love — for a home, 
perhaps, and a husband — 
But to give pain to a friend, that was no pleas- 
ure to her. 
Robin had liked her, she thought — but she 
wasn't quite sure of it, either; 
And she liked him, she thought — still, she was 
not very sure; 
For, not a long while ago, young Rofifey, the 
neighbouring farmer, 
Seem'd to be thinking of her — p'r'aps he was 
doing so still ! 
So, while she thought of all this, her heart grew 
softer and kinder; 
Jealousy, scarcely aroused, sank before Dolly's 
blue eyes ; 
(Dolly, who kept looking down, and wondering 
why she was silent) 
And at the last, she said ' Dolly, you love him 
yourself! 
' Yes, I can see you do, by your talk, and the look 
of your eyes, lass ! 



DOROTHY. 79 

* You are the one he should have — leastways, 

you wish it, I know ! 
*Well, I did think it was me, but I don't much 
care if it isn't: 

* When he comes back, we'll see ; we shall find 

out, pretty soon ; 
*And, if he does love you, if he really is wanting 
to have you, 
*/'// never stand i' your way — you shall be 
happy, for me.' 



Happy? Our Dorothy felt she was thoroughly 
happy already: 
Everything seem'd to be changed — all things 
were possible now ! 
Somehow, it all had come out : there was nothing 
she need be ashamed of: 
She had no rival to fear : she stood in nobody's 
way ! 
And she forgot her cows, forgot the big stick that 
she drove with — 
Yes, let it drop in the lane ; stopp'd, and with 
innocent joy 
Loudly she clapp'd her hands — and ah, as she 
smote them together. 



80 DOROTHY. 

Who would have guess'd such a sound was but 
an echo of love? 

* Oh, I am glad ! ' she exclaim'd ; ' oh, Miss Mary, 

I'm glad you don't love him ! 

* Sure, you'd have said, if you did — then you 

would have him, of course; 

* For, it would be such a thing, for me to be proud 

and presuming, 

* Coming betwixt you and him, stealing a sweet- 

heart from you ; 

* You, 'at has been so kind, it was always a pleas- 

ure to serve you ! 
*Now, it'll be som'at more; now I must love 
you, as well. 

* Yet, what a stupid I am ! For how can I tell 

'at he likes me? 

* He is the keeper, you know — ever so much 

above me — 
'Wouldn't it seem like a shame, if he wanted it 
ever so badly? 
. * P'r'aps it was only his way ; p'r'aps he meant 
nothing at all ! ' 

* Nonsense, you foolish girl,' said Mary, ' I'm cer- 

tain he loves you : 

* How can he help it, you know? / should, if 

I was a man ! 



DOROTHY. 8 1 

* And, as for being what you are, what of that? 

You deserve a good husband — 

* Only, I don't understand why he should care 

for your hands' — 

* No, nor me neither ! it's strange — one 'd think 

he'd be fit to despise 'em; 

* Oh, but you never can tell — men are so bad 

to make out ! 

* Still, if he does want me, and yoti don't mind it. 

Miss Mary, 

* I shall be — well, never mind ; we mustn't talk 

of it now. 

* Don't you tell Master, please ; and whatever you 

do, not Missis; 

* That 'd be worst thing of all — that 'd be 

trouble indeed ! ' — 

* Tell 'em ! ' said Mary, * oh no ! You may trust 

me — they never shall know it — 
*'Not till he tells 'em himself — not till he takes 
you away ! ' — 
Thus, then, they stood in the lane, those two, 
and smiled at each other: 
Two bonny girls — for, indeed, Mary was not to 
say plain : 
And you would think, I suppose, that at least in 
so tender a moment, 
6 



82 DOROTHY. 

After such words had been said, such an en- 
dearment begun, 
Dolly all glowing with bliss, and Mary with 
kindly contentment, 
Now^ you suppose, they would kiss, now they 
would kiss and embrace. 
No, not at all ! Such a thing never happens, 
with girls such as these are: 
'Tis for young ladies alone, dainty impressible 
souls ! 
These are but rustics, you know, and Dorothy 
only a servant; 
They were not equals, and that made it more 
difficult still. — 
True, I have seen, just once, two pit-girls in cor- 
duroy trousers, 
Blackfaced muscular girls — feminine too, for 
all that — 
Who in a pause of their work, like horses that 
wait for a waggon, 
Waited for their waggon too ; harness'd, for 
they were the team; 
And, as you see such a horse fling its head o'er 
the neck of its neighbour. 
Playfully biting her ear, only for something to 
do; 



DOROTHY, 83 

So, of those two strong girls, the slighter (she 
wasn't so slight, though) 
Actually flung up her arms — fell on the neck 
of her mate ! 
Whether it was but fatigue, or whether it really 
were fondness, 
Strange was the sight to me — curious, and 
almost unique: 
There was this manlike maid, with her head on 
her fellow's broad shoulder. 
Clasping her, just like a — well, just like a deli- 
cate girl ! 
What did the other one do, who was bigger and 
taller and stronger? 
Did she respond? Did she say, 'Dearest, how 
sweet to be thus ? ' 
Bless you, not she ! She was good, and gentle, 
I tell you, and loving; 
/ know her well, and I know how she is sor- 
rowing now ; * 
But she was grave, like a man ; she hated such 
infantine petting; 
Ay, and in worktime an' all — lasses and men 
looking on ! 

* For the death of her favourite sister, who was also a collier ; 
one of the best and handsomest girls I ever knew. 



84 DOROTHY. 

So, with a powerful thrust, with a lion-Hke shake 
of her large limbs, 
* Dang tha', lean oop, wench!' she cried — 
those were her terrible words — 
' Dang tha', lean oop ! ' and with that, she push'd 
off her tender companion ; 
Who had been fell'd by the blow, but that she 
also was strong. 
Was she offended ? Oh no ; for up came the 
loaded waggon — 
Up from the workings it came, laden with coals 
to the brim ; 
And, with an emulous start, with a habit of duty, 
the lasses 
Sprang to their load, both at once, cheerily 
dragg'd it away. 
'Twas a remarkable case ; I never have seen such 
another : 
For, among untaught girls — peasants and hard- 
working maids — 
If they are shallow and light, they care not for 
graceful abandon ; 
Having no grace of their own, having no feel- 
ings, indeed : 
And, if they're serious and good, like Mary for 
instance and Dolly, 



DOROTHY. 85 

Life too is serious, for them ; they are too grave 
for display. — 
Therefore, those two good girls neither kiss'd nor 
fondled each other: 
Only stood smiling apart, giving out love with 
their eyes; 
Till, when the spell was loosed — * My goodness, 
where is the cattle? 
* Where ha' they gone ? They are lost — Crum- 
ple has led 'em astray ! ' 
Dolly, she snatch'd up her stick, and ran with the 
speed of a hunter 
Up the long sandy lane — not very far, it is 
true ; 
For they were quiet and safe, and cropping the 
grass in the hedgerows, 
Heedless of human joys — thinking them trivial, 
no doubt ! 
Dorothy drove them straight home, and penn'd 
them in fold for the milking; 
And, as she sat on her stool, leaning her cheek 
on the cow. 
Milking with hard dry hands (and they are the 
hands for a milkmaid). 
Seeing the warm rich milk foaming and white 
in the pail, 



S6 DOROTHY, 

Hearing her cow's soft breath, and feehng the still- 
ness around her, 
Dorothy also was still'd, both from her joy and 
her pain: 
Dorothy also was soothed — though she never 
thought about soothing — 
After a time like this, such as she never had 
known. 



11. 




II. 



OW was the autumn come, and plough- 
ers went forth to their ploughing ; 
After the harvest was done, after the 
stubble was glean'd ; 
Ploughing the cornlands in, and turning up some 
of the fallows ; 
Getting all ready to sow crops for the incoming 
year. 
Oh, how delightful to see the exquisite sweep of 
the furrows 
Climbing in regular lines over the side of the 
hill! 
Stretching in beautiful curves, as it seems at a dis- 
tance, but really 
Straight as the strings of a harp ; ranged in great 
octaves, like them. 
For you shall see, in the sun, all purple and steely 
and shining. 
Ranges of long bright lines, all of them strictly 
alike ; 



90 DOROTHY. 

But, at the end of each range, at equal intervals 
always, 
Comes a great deep bass line, carved like a 
trench — as it is. 
Masterly art, in its way, and noble, the art of the 
ploughman ! 
Well might our Dorothy feel proud of its * glory 
and joy ! ' 
For she was ploughing too ; in the cool sweet 
air of October 
She too was out with the morn, scoring the 
slopes of the hill. 
Under a hedge by the wood stood her plough, with 
its yoketree of scarlet — 
Symbol of all good work — waiting till Dolly 
should come; 
Till she had harness'd the team, and with Billy 
the boy to attend her, 
Rode on the foremost horse, fresh for her labour 
of love. 
For *twas a labour of love, whereby she was earn- 
ing her living: 
What can be better than that, either for woman 
or man? 
Always to feel that your work is a thing that you 
know and are fit for. 



DOROTHY, 91 

Always to love it, and feel 'Yes, I am doing it 

well ' ! 
That was what Dorothy felt, though she couldn't 

have told you her feelings. 
While she strode over the field after her horses, 

at plough; 
Driving her furrows so straight, and trenching 

them round at the hedgerows, 
Guiding the stilts with a grasp skilful and strong 

as a man's. 



Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet cool 
air of October, 
High up on Breakheart Field, under the skirts 
of the wood, 
Dolly was ploughing: she wore (why did I not 
sooner describe it?) 
Just such a dress as they all — all the farm- 
servants around : 
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine and 
a fitness — 
Colour and pattern and shape suited so aptly 
to her. 
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-bonnet 
of cotton, 



92 DOROTHY. 

Framing her amberbright hair, shading her 
neck from the sun; 
Then, on her shoulders a shawl; a coarse red 
kerchief of woollen. 
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting her 
berry-brown skin ; 
Then came a blue cotton frock — dark blue, and 
spotted with yellow — 
Sleeved to the elbows alone, leaving her bonny 
arms bare; 
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the dim 
dull blue for a background, 
Seem'd not so rough as they were — softer in 
colour and grain. 
All round her ample waist her frock was gather'd 
and kilted, 
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to the calf 
of the leg: 
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of various 
colour 
Striped on a blue-grey ground: sober, and 
modest, and warm ; 
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter by 
home-knitted stockings ; 
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a plough- 
man should wear: 



DOROTHY. 93 

Big solid ironshod boots, that added an inch to 
her stature : 
Studded with nails underneath, shoed like a 
horse, at the heels. 
After a day at plough, all clotted with earth from 
the furrows. 
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa Matilda, 
to yours ! 



'TWAS in the quiet of noon ; and Dolly, thus clad, 
thus attended, 
Sat on a green hedge-bank, taking her rest for 
awhile : 
Sat there with Billy the boy, for there they had 
eaten their dinner — 
Bacon and bread and cold tea — under the 
shade of the hedge ; 
Under the shade of her team, for the tall plough- 
horses above her 
Also were taking their ease, patiently waiting 
for her: 
When, from the midst of the copse, from the 
heart of the mellowing woodlands. 
Firing of guns was heard, whirring of terrified 
birds. 



94 DOROTHY, 

' Gentlefolks ! ' Dolly exclaim'd, and sprang up 
at once to her labour; 
* Billy, lad, straighten the team — maybe they're 
coming this way ! * 
And, with a crack of her whip, with a loud * Gee 
up ! ' and a * Woa, horse ! ' 
Off they all started — and she lifting and sway- 
ing behind. 
Scarce had the great plough achieved one furrow 
and half of another. 
When from the edge of the wood two polish'd 
strangers appear'd ; 
Each with his gun, and equipp'd with shooting- 
coat, leggings, and all that: 
Gentlemen both, as it seem'd : guests at the 
Castle, no doubt. 
One was an iron-grey man of forty, or even of 
fifty; 
Statue-like, soldierly, calm ; but the quick light 
in his eyes 
Spake of a passionate past : the other was twenty 
years younger; 
Still but a stripling, and fair; fair, with a lovely 
moustache. 
' Ah,' cried the elder, * I see ! This is Breakheart 
Field, with a vengeance ! ' 



DOROTHY. 95 

' Yes, I remember it well ; and there's a foot- 
path, I know, 

* Somewhere about, by a farm, to the Ings — the 

waterside meadows ; 

* There we can meet them, you know ; that's 

where the luncheon's to he.' — 
* ' Gad, though, look there ! ' cried the youth ; — 'a 

woman, by George ! — and she's ploughing — 
*What, do they train them, out here — women 

— to follow the plough? 
'Uncle, we'll ask her the way — she's a social 

phenomenon, surely; 

* Which you can quote with effect, next time you 

bring in your Bill ! 

* P'r'aps she has heard of your Bill to Regulate 

Female Employment — 

* " Women and children," you know — won't she 

adore you for that ! 
' Yet, if you look at her now, you'll admit she's a 
capital ploughman : 
'See how she helps it along — see how she 
handles her team ! ' 



Thus while they talk'd, standing there, poor Dolly 
was ever approaching. 



96 DOROTHY. 

She, with her horses in front headed by Billy 
the boy : 
Ah, she had only escaped from the frying-pan into 
the fire — 
Here were the quality folks, standing and staring 
at her! 
What could she do? She was trapp'd — she could 
but go nearer and nearer. 
Red though her face might be ; redder than ever, 
just now: 
Ay, and whatever its faults, her hands were too 
busy to hide them : 
Well, she must let things alone; they'd never 
notice her face ! 
Swiftly she came to her doom — and the younger 
stranger address'd her 
(* Jove ! she's a beauty,' he thought, ' Fancy a 
beauty at plough! ') 
* So you are ploughing, my lass ? Warm work, in 
such weather as this is ! ' 
* Woa, horse ! * Dolly replied, pulling her best 
at the rein, 
' Woa ! ' And the plough stood still ; and she, as 
she stood in the furrow, 
Dropp'd him a curtsey, and said, * Yes, Sir, it 
is very warm^', 



DOROTHY. 97 

* Can you/ the elder began, with a lofty though 

courteous demeanour — 
' Can you just tell us, my girl, which is the way 
to the Ings ? ' 

* Yes, Sir; ' and lifting her arm, she pointed down 

into the valley — 
* Yes, Sir, you go by yon farm, under the cliff 
in the lane.' 

* Thank you,' he said, and walk'd on ; but the 

other one linger'd behind him: 
Dorothy wonder'd at that — what was he stop- 
ping to say? 
She, in the midst of her work — so unfit for her 
betters to talk to — 
Wish'd they would both go away; wish'd they 
had never come near. 

* Ah, then, you live at that farm ? Perhaps you're 

the farmer's daughter?' 
*Me, Sir?' cried Dolly, ' Oh no ! I am the 
servant, that's all ! ' 
And, as she said it, she smiled ; little knowing how 
well it became her; 
How it condoned in his eyes all that was coarse 
in her work. 
' Are you a servant? Indeed ! And why do they 
send you out ploughing? 
7 



98 DOROTHY. 

^ Men should do that, don't you know? You 
should be quiet indoors ! ' 
Dolly could almost have laugh'd, but she knew it 
would not be respectful; 
Therefore she gravely replied, * Well, Sir, I'm 
used to the fields : 
And there is only me, and Master, and this little 
lad here: 

* I should be shamed indeed, not to be able 

to plough ! * 

* Would you? And what is your name? and what 

is the name of the farm there ? ' 

* White Rose Farm, Sir,' she said ; * that is the 

place where I live.' 
As for her own poor name, she was silent ; for why 
should he ask it? 

* White Rose Farm ! ' he exclaim'd ; * oh, what 

a beautiful name ! 

* Yes, now I see how it is ' — and he smiled in her 

face as he said it — 

* You gave its name to the farm; you^ are the 

bonny White Rose ! 

* Well, I shall see you again ! Good-bye — you 

will not forget me? 

* Here is a trifle, you know, just to remember 

me by.' 



DOROTHY. 99 

And, with the word, he held out a broad piece 
of glittering silver, 
Such as she seldom had seen, never had had 
for her own. 
Had he but look'd in her eyes, he would never 
have offer'd her money: 
Both her blue eyes were aflame, shining like 
stars in a frost: 
*No, Sir,' she said, 'not for me — no, thank you, 
Sir — I have my wages — 
* Billy, get on ! ' And the plough moved in the 
furrow again; 
She, with a grand disdain, with a muscular heave 
of her shoulders 
Lifting the share to Its work, setting it straight 
in the mould. 
He was discomfited ; he, who had had such suc- 
cess among ladies, 
Foil'd by an ignorant wench bound to the tail 
of a plough ! 
It was distressing, of course ; but with such an 
antagonist, truly 
There was no shame in defeat — triumph Itself 
were disgrace. 
* She is a vixen,' he thought, ' but I like her the 
better for that, though ; 

LOFC. 



lOO DOROTHY. 

*Jove, how that anger of hers suited her beau- 
tiful face ! 
' She is no common girl ; there must be a story 
about her: 
'I shall find out before long — yes, I will see 
her again.' 
So, he stepp'd lightly away to the stile where his 
uncle was waiting — 
Waiting indignant, and still twirling his grisly 
moustache. 
* Frank,' said the senior, ' I know you are too much 
addicted to women — 
But I'm ashamed to see you stoop to a crea- 
ture like that! 
'Wenches who work in the fields are sure to be 
reprobates always: 
' How much more, do you think, one so de- 
praved as to plough'^ 
'And you should know where you are: remem- 
ber our duty as guests, sir! 
'That girl's master, no doubt, farms on the 
Castle estate ; 
' He is a lowborn boor ; and she, lower still, is 
his servant; 
' How would you like to be seen stopping and 
speaking to her'? 



DOROTHY. lOI 

* Ah, when I've carried my Bill — and it's rising 

in favour already — 

* We'll put a stop to all this ; we'll have no 

women a-field ! ' — 
Frank, that irreverent boy, had the courage to 
laugh at his uncle : 
' Bother your Bill ! ' he replied — * why, what 
a purist you are ! 

* Uncle, I tell you you're wrong ; you do her 

injustice, believe me; 

* She is no commonplace wench ; shes not de- 

graded at all. 

* You should have seen how she look'd when I 

ventured to offer her money ! 

* Proud ? Why, she rivals in pride Lady Sophia 

herself! 

* And, did you notice her face? It was sunburnt 

and rough, as her arms were, 

* But it was handsome withal — gentle, expres- 

sive, refined. 

* Yes * — for he saw the deep scorn in his uncle's 

countenance rising — 
' Yes, sir, I say it's 7'efined : she II never better 
your Bill ! ' 

* Bosh ! ' growl'd the other, enraged : ' when 

you've lived half as long, sir, as I have, 



102 DOROTHY. 

* You'll understand that a girl brought up to 

labour like hers 
' Must be degraded and coarse : but I see it is 
useless to argue — 

* Don't let me hear this again ! ' * No,' said 

his nephew, * you shan't ! ' 
Thus they contended in talk ; each far from the 
truth of the matter: 
But, as is usual, the youth trying at least to be 
just; 
While the grave man of the world, by his own 
want of sympathy blinded, 
Saw but the homely outside ; noted down that 
for his Bill. 



Well — and our Dolly herself, what did she do? 

and what were her feelings? 
Oh, she just stuck to the plough — finish'd the 

baulk she was on ; 
Follow'd her horses again, up and down, up and 

down, till the evening; 
Chiefly intent on her work, thinking of little, 

save that. 
But, when the day's work was done, when the 

plow was unyoked by the hedgerow, 



DOROTHY. 103 

When the whole team went home, headed by- 
Billy the boy; 
She, on the hindmost horse, high perch'd, holding 
on by the halter, 
All in her simple heart ponder'd the things 
she had heard. 
She had been brought face to face with men of 
a rank far above her: 
Forced to converse with them, too, since they 
were pleased to converse : 
Ay, and what wearisome talk, what foolish trum- 
pery questions — 
This was her first great thought — had she been 
hearing to-day ! 
If they were all like him, what strange irrational 
persons 
Quality folks must be! Yet, she could easily 
tell. 
Both by his voice and words, his dress and his 
company manners, 
He had come out of a world larger and higher 
than hers. 
That was just it! He thought that poor folks' 
ways were beneath him: 
Things that might serve to amuse such as are 
clever and rich: 



104 DOROTHY, 

Thought he might say what he Hked, talk ever 
such flatulent nonsense, 
When he should stoop to address ignorant peo- 
ple like her. 

Such were her thoughts — not her words : oh dear 
me, no, not her words, ma'am ! 
She had no words ; or at least, only an impotent 
few: 

But she could think, and feel ; and her thoughts 
were somewhat on this wise — 

* Me a White Rose, did he say? Me give a 

name to the farm? 
' Rubbish ! But happen, he thought I should like 
to be talk'd to a-that way; 

* Happen, 'twas only his fun — making a game, 

like, o' me ! 
' Farmer's daughter, indeed ! When he knew very 
well I'm a servant : 
' Must have seen it, of course ; everything 
shows what I am ! 

* And to be quiet indoors, and never do nothing 

at field work — 
'■ Never make hay, never hoe turnips and taters 
and wheat — 

* Me, 'at can do it as well as a man, I'll awand 

you, or better, 



DOROTHY. 105 

* Mey to be shut up indoors — oh, what a fool 

he must be ! 
* How I do hate such talk ! Mr. Robert, how 
different he was ! 

* Told me I ought to be proud both o* my work 

an' my hands; 
' Seem'd to be pleased, and spoke like a sensible 
man and a kind one — 
'Not such a guiser as yon — meaning, one 
canna tell what ! ' — 
True, she hated his talk: but not for its foolish- 
ness only; 
Something more deadly than that ruffled her 
maidenly pride : 
For, with his smooth soft words, and the offer 
he made her of money. 
Memories hotter than hate went like a flash 
through her brain. 
Maybe, she thought, it was thus that some one 
first spoke to her mother — 
Flatt'ring her pretty young face, tempting her 
foully with coin ! 
That, and not pride, was the thought that drove 
her indignantly onward ; 
That made her hurry away, spurning his money 
and him: 



I06 DOROTHY. 

Not the mere silver ; oh no — she could curtsey 
and smile at a shilling 
Honestly given and meant: shillings were pre- 
cious, to her. 



Well for a peasant girl who has beauty and 
worth, like our Dolly, 
If she have strength not her own, thus to sup- 
port her at need ! 
Even if rashly she think — as Dolly had reason 
for thinking — 
Gentlemen must go about seeking poor maids 
to devour. 
She was a poor maid, too : but if he should seek 
to devour her — 
He, with his glamour of words, graceful and 
glittering ways — 
Surely he will not succeed? For that which ruin'd 
the mother 
Gave to the daughter a soul keener and stronger 
than hers : 
Love, too, was fast coming in — the added strength 
of attachment — 
Soon Mr. Robert would come; soon she should 
see him again! 



DOROTHY. 107 

Thus then she waited and work'd, and thought 
of the shooting in Scotland: 
When would Sir Harry return? When would 
they all be at home? 
Weeks had already gone by, that day when the 
gentlemen met her, 
Since the great Harvest Home, since Mr. Rob- 
ert had gone; 
Weeks had already gone by : • when the house- 
keeper up at the Castle, 
Calling at White Rose Farm, once, on her way 
to the town, 
Mention'd, in affable talk to the Missis, and also 
to Mary, 
That there was news of them all — news of Sir 
Harry, at last. 

* Yes, they are all coming back ; and isn't it 

strange, Mr. Robert, 
Going to be married so soon? Leastways, they 
say as it's him.' 

* Married ! ' the Missis exclaim'd ; but Mary was 

prudently silent, 
Keeping her heart to herself, till the old gossip 
had gone. 
Then, she also exclaim'd : ' I'll never believe it ! 
But, mother. 



Io8 DOROTHY. 

* Don't you tell Dorothy, though ; don't let 

our Dorothy know ! ' 
* Dolly? Why not?' said the dame; 'what has 
she got to do wi' the keeper? 

* Setting her cap at him, eh? Nay, it can never 

be that!' 
' Setting her cap? No indeed ! ' cried Mary; ' but, 

mother, I'm certain 
'He has a fancy for her — he'll marry nobody 

else.' 
' Why then, I thought it was you he was making 

sheep's eyes all along at ! ' 

* Me, mother? No, not he — I wouldn't have 

him, at least : 
'Somebody else shall have me' — but ere they 
were talking in this way, 
Dolly, unhappy, had heard what Mrs. Jellifer 
said: 
For in the scullery near, she was sitting and peel- 
ing potatoes. 
Thinking of nothing at all; happy, no doubt, 
in her work; 
When Mr. Robert his name had flash'd through 
her ears like the lightning; 
Follow'd by thunder, alas ! ' Going to be mar- 
ried so soon ! ' 



DOROTHY. 109 

What did she do ? Did she faint, and scream, and 
go into hysterics? 
No, madam ! Fainting and salts are not for 
wenches Hke her: 
She only dropp'd her knife ; and the curly potato 
parings 
Roll'd off her quivering knees, settled them- 
selves on the floor, 
While she rose up, and went out: to the barn, 
for she knew it was empty — 
Had a good cry, and return'd heavily back to 
her work. 
Nobody named the affair; and all things went 
on just as usual ; 
Till, on a washing day, Mary and she were 
alone, 
And she broke out and said, * Miss Mary, why 
didn't you tell me?' 

* Tell you ? tell what ? ' said the girl : ' Why, 

that he's going to be wed ! ' 
'Wed? Not a bit! Not he! Now, Dorothy, 
don't you believe it I 

* I'll bet a penny it's lies — wait till you see 

him, and then ! 
*Yes, it's just like them girls in the housemaids' 
room at the Castle, 



no DOROTHY. 

' Wanting to have him theirsels — making up 

tales, when they cant! ' 
Dorothy shook her head : * I canna help thinking 

it's true, Miss; 
'There's such a many — and then, sure Mrs. 

Jellifer knows ! ' 



TWAS on that very same day, while Dorothy, 
after her milking, 
Went along White Rose Lane, driving her cat- 
tle a-field. 
Whom should she see but him, the youth with 
the lovely moustaches. 
Sauntering there all alone, smoking his evening 
cigar ! 
Leaning, he was, on the gate of the field into 
which she was going; 
Gazing, it seem'd, towards the West: what was 
he studying there? 
Well, there was something to see; for the sun 
was setting in glory. 
Glowing through marvellous clouds, molten, 
suffused, with his light; 
Clouds all rosy above, like the snows of an Alpine 
sunset. 



DOROTHY. 1 1 1 

But in the heart of their snow thrill'd with a 
cavernous fire; 
Clouds that were couch'd superb in a blaze of 
opal and em'rald, 
Haunting the clear cool sky, lucid and lovely 
and blue. 
Yes, he was studying that; and Dorothy noticed 
it also: 
How could she help it, you know, walking 
straight into the West? 
Her heart too was refresh' d by the sight of those 
wonderful colours, 
Though she had seen them before, many and 
many a time. 
*What, is it you?' said the youth; 'the White 
Rose maid of the farm there ! 

* Ah, you do well to be out now, in an evening 

like this ! 
*■ Is it not beautiful here ? And do you not often 
enjoy it, 

* Strolling abroad in the lanes, after your duties 

are done? 
*You have been milking, perhaps? What clear- 
eyed beautiful creatures ! 
*Why, they have skins, I believe, almost as 
soft as your own ! ' 



112 DOROTHY. 

Dolly had curtsey'd and blush'd, when he open'd 
his lips to address her; 
Awed by his presence, and yet wishing he 
hadn't been there; 
Now, she started and stared — what, again ? 
Would he never have done, then, 
Talking his nonsense? And worse, making 
such game about herf 
Who would have thought, indeed, that gentlefolks 
could be so artful. 
Saying in roundabout words just what they 
never could mean? 
It was too bad, Dolly thought; and she solemnly 
said, *If you please. Sir, 
* Just let me open the gate — let me come 
through with the cows ! ' 
* Oh, is it this way you go ? Let me set the 
gate open for you ! ' 
Gaily he did it, and held; but the poor igno- 
rant cows, 
Seeing a stranger, hung back ; and Dorothy scam- 
per'd around them. 
Calling, and waving her arms, using her stick 
now and then. 
Till they were all in the field : while he, with his 
critical eyeglass, 



DOROTHY. 113 

Scann'd her (she felt it), and stood calmly 
surveying the scene. 

* Thank you, Sir,' Dorothy said, turning hastily 

round to go homeward : 
But he had shut-to the gate; closed it, and 

she was inside ! 
There he stood, leaning without, and smiling, and 

holding her captive ; 
Smiling persuasive smiles, under his golden 

moustache ! 

* I have done something for you — and will you 

do nothing for me, then? 
'You must pay toll, don't you know? That is 
the rule of the road ! * 
Toll ! Though the phrase was new, she guess'd 
what he meant; and it call'd up, 
Over her bonny brown face, crimson as deep 
as the sky's: 
What, should she stand like a stock, and a stran- 
ger gentleman kiss her? 
No ! And she sprang to the gate, meaning to 
climb it at once : 
Gates were a trifle, to her : she would climb it in 
spite of him, easy, 
And from the topmost bar lightly leap down, 
and away ! 

8 



114 DOROTHY, 

But he relented: ^ Oh no! Not that — I would 
never detain you — 

* Only a moment's talk — won't you just hear 

me, for once?' — 

* Hear you, Sir?' Dolly repHed, as she came 

through the gate very proudly, 

* You can ha' nothing to say — nothing as / un- 

derstand ! 

* You are demeaning yourself. Sir, to talk to a ser- 

vant like I am ; 

* Let me go home to the farm — I am no fellow 

for youJJ^^ 

* Servant ? ' he said, ' But indeed I do not beheve 

you're a servant; 
'You are too pretty for that. Tell me, now, 
what is your name?' 

* Dolly's my name. Sir,' she said. * Dolly what?' 

' Oh, nothing but Dolly ! 

* Why was you axing my name ? ' For, with a 

flutter of shame, 

All her heart took fire at the thought that she 
had not a father, 
Save such a stranger as this : just such an- 
other, perhaps ! 

All her simple heart went flickering this way and 
that way. 



DOROTHY. 115 

Thinking of him that was gone, whom she 
could love very well — 
Thinking of this one here, this gentleman, dainty 
and clever. 
Whom she could not love at all: why was he 
bothering her? 
' Give me your hand,' said he, * and I'll tell you 
your name without asking ! ' 
She, with a sudden disdain, put it behind her 
at once : 
But, in a moment, she thought, * He'll see I am 
really a servant, 
* If I but show him my hand : yes, let him see 
it, and feel ! ' 
Therefore, she held out her hand ; and he snatch'd 
it, poor man! without looking: 
'Twas but her face that he saw — t/iat was the 
thing he admired; 
That, and her picturesque dress ; and perhaps her 
arms, just a little; 
Though even peasants, he thought, might have 
more delicate arms. 
Lightly he took her hand; intending, doubtless, 
to press it: 
Meaning at least to bestow some pretty com- 
pliment there; 



Il6 DOROTHY. 

But, as to one in the dark, who, feeling for silk 
or for velvet, 
Suddenly grasps unawares rusty old iron in- 
stead. 
So did it happen to him, thus grasping the hand 
of our Dolly — 
Rough as old iron, and hard — terribly callous 
— within. 7 
Singular contrast, this, these two hands mated 
together ! 
One so laborious and large, one so refined and 
so small ; 
Singular, too, to reflect — these young folk facing 
each other, 
He no effeminate man, she a most womanly 
maid — 
Curious, I say, to reflect that the hands were not 
as their owners : 
That which was small and refined, slender and 
soft, was the man's; 
That which was clumsy, and coarse, and big, was 
the hand of the maiden ! 
\He was the lady, it seem'd; she \^diS the mus- 
cular man. 1 
Have you not noticed this thing — this strange 
pathetic bouleveisementy 



DOROTHY. 117 

Making our culture and class stronger than 
Nature and sex? 
Desinit in piscein mulier formosa stiper- 
nk — 
While from his homelier conche Man rises ten- 
der and fair ! 
So that a well-bred youth, fastidious, gracious, 
and gentle. 
Lives in his delicate world, beauty around hjm 
at will. 
While some poor maid of the house, as gentle 
by nature as he is, 
Grows, through hard labour, unfit even to wait 
upon him. 
This is an evil, you say? I respectfully beg to 
deny it: 
'Tis not an evil at all: 'tis but the half of a 
good. 
She by her labour shall gain self-reliance and 
strength, as a man does : 
He, through his culture, shall share her inex- 
haustible grace. 
So — let the man be refined, highly organised, 
even a poet, 
And let the woman be coarse, wholly subdued 
to her work: 



Il8 DOROTHY. 

Yet, when her love-time comes, and her mother- 
hood after her marriage, 
Nature asserts itself then — sex has its rights 
in the end. 



But I am leaving those two, Mr. Frank and our 

Dolly, together; 
He with her hand in his ! What, is he holding 

it still? 
No — for the moment he felt the touch of her 

labouring fingers, 
And, looking down at her hand, judged of it 

there by his own. 
Straightway he dropp'd it, and cried, *■ Good God, 

what a hand for a woman ! 

* Where have you lived, all your life? What 

sort of work have you done?' 
Dorothy was not surprised, nor hurt, nor even 

offended ; 
Only amused, in her way — seeing the change 

in his tone; 
And she look'd up, and replied, ' I've lived i' one 

place all my life. Sir; 

* And, for my work, I can do all that belongs 

to a farm: 



DOROTHY. 119 

*I can hoe turnips and wheat; and plough (as 
you saw me) and harrow; 

* Fettle both horses and cows ; clean out the 

stable and byre ; 

* Milking, of course, I can do ; and poultry, and 

pigs, and the dairy; 
' Reaping in harvest time ; haymaking, stack- 
ing, an' all — 

* And for indoors, I clean, and scrub, and attend 

to the housework; 
'Washing and ironing, too; baking and brew- 
ing, sometimes ; 

* Cleaning of knives and boots ' — and she look'd 

courageously at him. 
Looking as one who should say, ' there ! would 
you like any more?* 
He, as he heard, stood amazed; such a horribly 
frank revelation. 
Made by so handsome a girl, stagger'd him 
quite, for awhile ! 
Then he exclaim'd, ' How strange ! I really can 
7iot understand you — 

* Such a sweet face as yours — such indescriba- 

ble hands ! 
*What, do you like such work?' *Yes, I do, Sir! 
I wouldn't exchange it, 



120 DOROTHY. 

* No, nor my hands, if I might — not for such 

soft ones as yourn ! ' — 
She was grown bold, you perceive; she had no 
more fear of his passion: 
Passion? the touch of her hands cured him 
completely of love ! 
Ah, she could talk to him now: she knew that 
his feelings were alter'd : 
He, with his soft pink palm smarting from pres- 
sure of hers ! 

* Well, pretty Dolly,' he said, * I must leave you, 

I fear, to your work, then : 

* Tell me your name, though, at least — I shall 

not vex you again ! ' 

* Crump is my name, Sir,' she said : ' at least, Bessy 

Crump was my mother: 

* I have no name, only hers ; that's why I hid 
I . it, afore.' 

* Oh — I perceive ! You are wise ; and don't you 

be fool'd, like your mother: 

* Marry some honest good man, one in your 

own rank of life; 
' One who — ahem ! can admire and appreciate 
hands such as yours are — 

* Hands that can labour for love, doubtless, as 

well as for hire ! ' 



DOROTHY. 121 

Labour for love, did he say? She look'd in his 
face as he said it — 
Labour for love? Yes, indeed — that was the 
wish of her heart ! 
He had divined it ! And now, she felt so free and 
so grateful. 
If he had sent her a mile, she would have gone 
for him twain. 

* Ah, your eyes brighten ! ' said he ; * but your 

smiles are for somebody else, though — 

* You have a sweetheart, I see ; you are expect- 

ing him now.' 

* No, Sir ! ' poor Dolly replied ; * oh no, indeed I 

am not. Sir ! 

* But you was speaking so kind — not as you 

was at the first — 

— \ 

* Gentlefolks can do us good, if they keep their 

place, and advise us — 

* And I am thankful, I sure, if you think kindly 

o me ! 
' Sir, I must go, if you please — my Missis is want- 
ing her supper; 

* And there's the things to wash up : humbly I 

wish you good-bye.' 
He did not ask for her hand — not again — 'twas 
too dreadful to think of — 



122 DOROTHY. 

You might as well shake hands with a macada- 
mized road ! 
But with a kindly farewell he acknowledged her 
reverent curtsey, 

Watch'd her departing, and then — lighted 
another cigar. 



' Eh, what a blessing,' she thought, as she ran 
down the lane in the twilight, 

* Eh, what a mercy it was, him getting hold o' 

my hand ! 
*But, I was sure it 'd do — for gentlefolks cannot 
abide 'em — 

* Hardworking hands like mine : theirn is so very 

unlike ! 
* My, what a hand his was — as soft an' as tender 

as satin ! 
*What must a lady's be, if there's such hands 

in a man f ' 
Thus she ran on ; and the night, coming quietly 

down into evening, 
Deepen'd the twilight below, lighted the stars 

up above; 
And she saw no one ; until, by the hayricks close 

to the farmyard. 



DOROTHY. 123 

Somebody call'd from behind, * Dolly, my lass, 
is it you ? * 
Ah ! she should know that voice : but it couldn't 
be he though — of course not! 

They hadn't come — and besides, what could 
she be to him now? 
Still, she must answer and stop — and she trem- 
bled a bit, as she did so; 

Wishing it mightn't be him: wishing it might, 
all the same. 



* Oh, Mr. Robert, it's you ? Whoever 'ud think 

for to see you 
' Standing out here by yourself ? Master '11 

take it unkind ! 
'When did you come?' — 'Why, to-day; dost 

think I could wait till to-morrow, 
* Dolly, thou hard-hearted girl^ when I was 

coming to thee? 
' I've got a something to say ' — * Oh yes, Mr. 

Robert, I know it; 
' We have heard all — and I sure every one 

wishes you well ! ' 

* Wishes me well, does she say? Is the wench 

gone daft, sin' I left her? 



124 DOROTHY. 

'What have they said about me? Dolly, lass, 
what does thee mean ? ' 
'Why, Mr. Robert, of course I mean about you 
an' your wedding; 
'Old Mrs. Jellifer came — said it was going to 
be soon.' — 
* Dang Mrs. Jelly, I say ! them women must always 
be meddling ! 
' Dolly, forgive me — I know thou wouldn't med- 
dle, for one ! ' 
'Isn't it true, then?' she cried, 'Oh, isn't it true 
you've a sweetheart?' 
' Ay, I've a sweetheart, I hope — that's what 
I've come about, now: 
' But, I can tell how it is — it's Amos, the under- 
keeper, 
* Him and his barefooted girl — thafs how the 
story began. 
'What does it signify, though, the lies they may 
tell at the Castle? 
'Dolly, I've come to fetch thee! Didn't I say 
I would come? 
' Dolly, thou knows very well I love thee and no- 
body else, lass — 
' Hast thou forgotten that night, after our dance, 
at the farm?* 



DOROTHY. 125 

* No, Mr. Robert, oh no ! ' she said, in a tremulous 

whisper, 

* Only, I thought you had found somebody bet- 

ter 'an me ! ' — 

* Somebody better 'an thee ? Ay, that woicld be a 

job, though, to find her ! 

* Give me thy hand — that's right — just let me 

feel it again ' — 
Freely she gave him her hand ; and not as an 
antidote this time : 
Sure of an answering grip almost as hard as her 
own: 

* Dolly,' he grasp'd it and said, * there's lasses a 

plenty in Scotland; 

* Some 'at has hardworking hands, some as are 

bonny — a few : 

* But if there's one on 'em all, for work and for 

beauty together, 
*Fit to come second to thee — I'm not a keeper, 

that's all! 
*Why, thou must look i' the glass to find such 

another as thine is — 
' Such a sweet face, I mean : just like a peach 

i' the sun ! 

* And, if thy hands are hard — and I know they 

couldn't be harder, 



126 DOROTHY. 

* Doing such things as thee does, working so 

hard on the farm — 
'/ hke 'em better for tliat; for it's real honest 
labour has done it: 

* And they'll grow softer in time ; yes, they'll 

improve by-and-by ! ' — 

* No, Mr. Robert, they won't ! They shall never 

be soft, if I know it: 

* Didn't you tell me yourself I should be glad 

they was hard? 

' And, do you think, if I'm proud o' the name of 
a hard-working servant, 
*I could sit idle at home, when I am — any- 
thing else?' 

'Idle, dear Dolly? Oh no; it isn't in thee to be 
idle ! 

* Thou shall have work o' thy own, if thou'll be 

guided by me : 
' Give us thy other hand ' — and he held up its 
thick third finger — 
' Thou's never yet had a ring ; couldn't thee do 
with one, here ? ' 

* Oh, Mr. Robert,' she cried, ' oh, what shall I 

say? I believe you; 
' Yes, I believe you indeed ; you are so friendly 
and kind ! 



DOROTHY. 127 

'And I have known you for long — but then, I 
am only a servant; 

* Haven't a penny to give — all as I've got i' 

the world 
' Is just the wages I earn, an' a few little pounds 
o' my savings ; 

* How can I do it, you know? How can I let 

you love mef 

* Oh, it'd be such a shame, if / was the one to 

disgrace you — 

* You, that's head-keeper an' all ; ay, an* a house 

o' your own ! 
' You, that has but to speak out, an' there's many 
a farmer's daughter, 

* Many a bettermost girl, gladly 'ud have you, 

I sure!' 

* Oh, you innocent lass ! What signifies farmers' 

daughters, 

* Bettermost girls, and that, when I'm a-courting 

o' thee? 

* Thoii art the one as I want; an' if any one else 

would ha' had me, 

* Why, let 'em whistle, say I : somebody s sure 

to be near ! 

* Dolly, dear Dolly, say Yes, and come to the 

house as you talk on, 



128 DOROTHY. 

* Come, an' thou'll make it a home; that's what 
it's never been yet ! — ' 



Did she say Yes? Who knows? I don't think 
any one heard it: 
But he caress'd her unblamed — caught her, 
and kiss'd her, and held: 
She, the stout stahvart wench, with the ample 
waist, and the shoulders. 
Lay on his heart for awhile, happy and still, like 
a child. 
Where were her strong brown arms, all used to 
the farm and the cattle? 
Ah, they were tenderly wreathed, just as a 
lady's might be: 
Where was her sunburnt cheek, all roughen'd and 
bronzed by the rude winds? 
Ah, it was glowing and soft; warm with inef- 
fable joy: 
Even her hands, that had grown to be implements 
merely of labour, 
Thrill'd with a daintier sense, here in this dream- 
land of Love ! 
For, when the love-time comes, the day of delight 
and possession, 



DOROTHY. 129 

Out of the loving heart all that is lovely ap- 
pears ; 
All that is sensitive opes — and the signs of labour 
and sorrow 
Shrink away into the past, counting for nothing 
at all. 
Silent they both of them were, for it was the 
moment of silence : 
Even in commonplace moods peasants have 
not many words ; 
And at a time like this the most eloquent passion 
is speechless : 
Language can never express half that humanity 
feels ; 
Yea, and the tongue of the wise, and the rapturous 
words of the poet, 
Could not deliver in full even poor Dorothy's 
heart. 
Music alone can do that : behold how the mighty 
Beethoven, 
When Leonora at length clings to her own 
Florestan, 
He, in that hour of supreme transcendent pas- 
sionate triumph, 
Lifts his immortal airs quite from the region 

of words; 

9 



I30 DOROTHY. 

Gives to the lovers a cry — inarticulate utterance 
only, 
Keeps, for the height of his theme, pure and 
unsyllabled sound. 



Music ! There's little of that in the life of an 
English peasant: 
Dorothy knew not a note — knew not what 
melody means; 
Yet she could sing — in church; and doubtless, 
doubtless, to-morrow 
She will be carolling loud, light'ning her labour 
with song. 
But for to-day, 'twas enough to lean on his breast 
and be thankful: 
Wondering if it were true, if she were really 
his own: 
Till, in the heart of her joy, in the midst of that 
tender endearment, 
She was reminded that Love is but a stranger 
on earth ; 
She, so transfigured, refined, to a loftier level of 
being. 
Fell in a moment, alas! down to her kitchen 
again. 



DOROTHY. 131 

For there were voices and lights, and Missis her- 
self in the doorway, 
Over the wide farmyard calling to some one 
aloud, 

'Where can the wench have gone? She's never 
come back from the cows yet ! 

* Something's amiss, I'll be bound ; 'tisn't like 

Dolly, at all ! ' 
Then they both started, those two, where they 
stood in the dusk by the hayricks : 

* Oh, Mr. Robert,' she cried, * Missis is talking 

o' me ! 
' I never thought o' the time — I must run, I 
haven't a minute — 

* Oh, but to leave you out here, all in the dark, 

and alone ! ' — 
' Never you fret about me,' and he kiss'd her lips 
as he loosed her; 

* Leave me alone, lass, for that ; I shall be here 

again soon : 

* Run, Dolly, run — ' and she ran, through the gate, 

through the yard, through the back-door 
Into the kitchen ; and there, blushing, awaited 
her doom. 

* Dolly,' said Missis, 'I say! what's matter? what 

makes thee so late, girl?' 



132 DOROTHY. 

But, as the culprit paused, framing some feeble 
reply, 
Came such a fury of knocks, unexpected, ill-timed, 
at the front door — 
Door never open'd at all, save on a company 
day! 
' Mercy ! What's that? ' cried the dame ; ' one 'ud 
think they was banging the house down. 

* Happen, my Lady is ill — maybe, the Castle's 

a-fire ! 

* Ay, it's bad news, I'll awand ! ' and she flew to 

discover the wonder. 
Leaving poor Dolly alone, trembling at such a 
reprieve. 
Mary had run for the door, but her mother 
achieved it before her; 
Crying, ' Who's there ? ' till the bolts gave at 
the voice of a friend. 
*Why, Mr. 'Robert! Good Lord, is it you, 'at 
we thought was in Scotland? 

* Fraying a body like this ! What, is there any- 

thing wrong? ' 

* Nay, nothing wrong,' said the swain, ' if so be 

as you take to it kindly — ' 

* Kindly be shiver'd ! Come in — Master shall 

welcome you home.' 



DOROTHY, 133 

* No, not the Master ! It's you, only you, as I 

wanted to speak to, 
* If you can spare me the time, just a few min- 
utes, alone.' 
So they went into the room, the prim little calico 
parlour. 
Kept like a raree-show; sacred to holiday 
times. 
There, in the dark (but the moon shone lovingly 
in through the window) 
Robin unburden'd his mind ; spake of his 
Dolly, at last: 
Spake with a faltering tongue; for he privily 
thought that Miss Mary — 
Or, 'twas her mother, perhaps — squinted a little 
on him : 
But, as the tale went on, his heart and his mascu- 
line courage 
Rose with the theme, and he spake fearless and 
frank, like a man. 

* So,' at the last he said, ' if you think you could 

any ways spare her. 
We might be wed very soon — leastways, in 
winter, I mean. 

* Dolly's a woman grown ; and me, why I'm close 

upon thirty, 



134 DOROTHY. 

' Time to be wed ! and, you know, I can afford 
her a home.' 
All through his tale, ill at ease, making brief 
exclamations of wonder. 

Lifting her hands and her eyes, sat the incredu- 
lous dame ; 
Now a believer, at length, in the truth of his 
misplaced affection; 

Now a believer; and yet marveUing how it 
could be, 

* Well, this is news ! ' she exclaim'd, when the story 

was finally ended; 

* Dolly's in wonderful luck, getting a sweetheart 

like you ! 

* Who would ha' thought it o' yotiy to be choosing 

a rough farm-servant, 
*One as is base-born, too ! Not as I blame her 
for that: 

* 'Tisn't her fault, poor thing ! An' I wil/ say this 

for our Dolly, 

* She is a rare good lass — hardworking, honest, 

and true: 

* But, she's a servant, you know : Mr. Robert, you 

might ha' done better — 

* Better a thousand times — ay, and wi' money, 

an' all! 



DOROTHY. 135 

' Well, she's a handsome face, though I reckon it's 
brown, to our Mary's ; 

* Ay, and a kind heart too ; that I would never 

deny! 

* Yes, and what is it to me, if you fancy a wench 

o' the kitchen? 

* Though she's been here from the first — born 

in our garret, you know — 
*Born? Ay, and been like a child, like our own, 
to me an' my master; 

* All her life, you may say : scarce like a servant 

at all ! 

* Still, I've no call to say No; how should I? she 

isn't my daughter: 

* Betsy, her mother, is dead : as for the father, 

who knows? 

* / know him, though, who he is ; he's a gentle- 

man, that you may swear to — 

* Dolly herself shows that, everywhere — even 

her hands — 

* But, if I catch him again, if I ever set eyes upo' 

that man, 
' He shall ha' something fro' me — some little 
piece o' my mind ! 

* Well — for this sweethearting job : deary me, I 

was almost forgetting — 



136 DOROTHY. 

* So, you've a mind to be wed soon, when the 

winter comes on? 

* Spare her^ said you ? If I know I never shall get 

such another, 
'What can I do but spare? If you must have 

her, you must ! ' — 
So it was settled ; and he, springing up from his 

chair, in the moonlight, 
Thank'd her with heartfelt words ; squeezed her 

warm hand in his own. 

* Nay, never thank me ! She's free, and somebody 'd 

sure to ha' had her; 

* And, she'll be 'appy wi' you : you'll make her 

happy, I know.' 



Dolly meanwhile, left alone, was standing forlorn 

in the kitchen; 
Too much excited to work — too overjoy'd to 

sit down. 
Tearful and silent, she stood ; leaning back on the 

old oak dresser; 
Folding her hands on her lap, waiting again for 

her doom. 
Enter to her, unannounced, with a smile full of 

meaning, Miss Mary: 



DOROTHY. 137 

Springs to her side, to her cheek: gives her a 

sisterly kiss ! 
That was an honour, of course — young Missis 

a-kissing the servant: 
Dorothy felt it, and blush'd : * Thank you, Miss 

Mary,' she said — 

* Thank you — I know you mean well ; but Fd 

liefer it hadn't have happen'd.' 
'Happen'd? ^hy.what?' cried the girl ; 'how 
did you know he was here?' 

* Here ! ' scream'd poor Dolly, 'What, now? Mr. 

Robert has come to the house, then?' 

* Ay, that he has ! An' what's more, mother 

herself let him in ! 
' Yes, she has got him alone, their two sweet selves 
in the parlour; 

* Talking — you know what about : all about 

sweethearts, an' you. 
'Didn't I tell you he'd come? An' didn't I say 
he was faithful? 

* Tell me now — wasn't it him kept you so long 

out o' doors? ' 

* Yes, it was him — it was him — I never expected 

to meet him : 
' Oh, what a trouble it is, being so happy as 
this ! ' 



DOROTHY. 

Trouble, you fainthearted wench? What, a trou- 
ble to marry your sweetheart? 
* That's what it's coming to, now; mother is 
sure to give in; 
*And you deserve him,. you do — ' * Oh no ! ' in- 
terrupted our Dolly — 
*■ Yes, you deserve him, I say — never you tell 
me you don't ! 
* So, you'll be happy at last : and won't we all 
come to your wedding ! 
'Come to your wedding, said I? Nay, you'll 
be married from here.' 
Thus they discoursed; and anon, the door being 
furtively open'd. 
Enter bold Robin himself — smiling, successful, 
and shy: 
Shy, when he saw who was there; and it would 
have been certainly awkward, 
But that Miss Mary advanced — Nature in- 
structed her so — 
Gracious, with offer'd hand, and said, *Well in- 
deed, Mr. Robert! 
'Why did you keep it so close? You might 
ha' trusted us all ! * 
Soothed by her tact — for it show'd she was not 
disappointed, nor jealous — 



DOROTHY. 139 

Robert shook hands Hke a friend ; thank'd her, 

and tried to explain : 
But she withdrew ; for she said, * Two's company, 

isn't it, Dolly? 
'■Three isn't wanted just now: so, Mr. Robert, 

good-night ! ' 

Lightly she left them alone, like a wise and sen- 
sible maiden : 
So did her mother, awhile : so will we too, if 
you please ! 
For there's another thing still, one more little 
episode wanting. 
Ere we can leave them for good, — husband 
(it may be) and wife. 



III. 



III. 



\VA^it.<>>'/ 



WAS on that very same night, in the 

smoking-room at the Castle, 
'After the ladies had gone, sorely fa- 
"*^ tigued, to their rest — 

For they had suffer'd a ball, poor things, and an 
archery meeting. 
Also a ride in the park, all within twenty-four 
hours 3^' , 

'Twas on the very same night; and our great 
Parliamentary Colonel 
Sat with his nephew, alone, over a final 
cigar. 
Even their host had retired ; Sir Harry, the pink 
of politeness, 
Left his dear cousins, and left brandy and soda 
and all; 
He, with appropriate words, with courtesies apolo- 
getic. 
Hoped they'd forgive him, for once : ' Damna- 
ble headache, you know ! ' 



144 DOROTHY. 

Thus they were seated alone; and the talk was 
of racing and hunting, 
Gossip, and girls, and game — all that Society- 
loves. 
Suddenly, Frank broke out — ' I say though, talk- 
ing of shooting, 
* Do you remember that girl out in the open, 
at plough? 
'Well, I have seen her again.' * What of that?' 
quoth the excellent Colonel: 
' You are too wise, I presume, twice to commit 
yourself there ! ' 

* Oh yes ! But I was obliged, as luck would have 

it, to meet her; 
*For she was driving her cows up to the gate 

where I was. 
' So, I just ask'd how she did ; said a few sage 

words on the weather; 
' Nothing that cotild do her harm — Virtue, and 

you, were my guard ! 

* True, I was somewhat impress'd by her beautiful 

eyes, and her features : 
'Brown as she is, \}cv^x€'s> finesse — yes, there's 
real beauty, in them. 

* But there's an antidote near ; her hands are so 

painfully horny, 



DOROTHY. 145 

' Eros himself wouldn't dare lay his soft finger 
on hers ! ' — 
* Well then — et puis ? What's the point of this 
very remarkable story ? ' — 

* Ah, you may laugh — but I'm sure something 

* uncommon there is ! 

I* How should a peasant like her, so coarse and 

repulsive in some things, ^ '^ 

* Have such a highbred face ; gentle, serene, 

and refined? 
' Uncle, why even your Bill to Regulate Female 
Employment 
' Doesn't explain such a thing : trust me, it 
doesn't indeed ! J 

* Voii can explain it, then, eh ? ' ' Why, yes, if 

you'll only have patience : 

* She is a charity child, born on the farm where 

she lives ; 

* And, although size doesn't know, I'm sure her 

anonymous father 

* Must have been some one of rank : some one 

superior, at least.' — 

* What a romance ! And where is your hard- 

handed heroine's dwelling-? 

* Where does she slumber at eve, after her feats 

at the plough? 

10 



146 DOROTHY. 

* Has she a highsounding name, a propos to her 

lofty condition ? ' — 

* Dorothy Crump is her name — that is plebeian 

enough ! 

* White Rose Farm is the house; that pretty old 

house by the river — 

* Don't you remember the cliff, just at the turn 

of the road? 

* Dorothy Crump is her name : I ask'd, and she 

artlessly told me: 

* But, 'tis her mother's, of course ; that is no clue 

to her birth.' — 

* White Rose Farm, did you say? ' said the languid 

Colonel, arising; 
Shaken, it seem'd, for a time out of his evening 
repose : 
'Well, 'tis a charming name! And the story is 
just as you put it — 
' Folly has father'd her face : labour accounts 
for her hands. 

* But, it is late ; Cousin Hal is sleeping the sleep 

of the blessed : 

* Bedtime, my boy ! ' And they went each to his 

bachelor room. 



DOROTHY. 147 



Oddly enough — next day, for the first time 
since his arrival, 
Colonel St. Quentin went out, long before 
breakfast, alone. 
It was a beautiful morn; the first white frost of 
October 
Sharpen'd the autumn air, freshen'd the odours 
of earth. 
Shed upon leafage and lawn its crisp white gossa- 
mer garment, 
Thin as a bridal veil; sparkling, and snowy, 
and cold. 
Where then, so early a-field, this beautiful maid- 
enly morning, 
Sacred to innocent peace, pure as the breast 
of a bride. 
Where did the Colonel go? — Who knows? Per- 
haps to the stables? 
Or to the kennels, beyond? Or, for a stroll, to 
the Lodge? 
Or to the river, perchance? Ah yes! No doubt, 
to the river; 
For 'twas at White Rose Farm somebody saw 
him go by. 



148 DOROTHY. 

But, he return'd in time to behold, in the private 
garden, 
Roses, late roses, in hand. Lady Sophia her- 
self. 
*Ah!' cried the gallant M. P., 'what happiness, 
Lady Sophia, 
*Thus to surprise you, for once, here in your 
Eden, alone ! ' — 
' Nay, Cousin Charles,' said the Dame, with a 
stately and courteous Goodmorrow, 
' If I am Eve at her flowers, who, may it please 
you, 2SQ. you f ' 
*Not, I assure you, a snake! Oh no, I have no 
such intentions : 

* You have already attain'd all that an Eve could 

desire. 

* / have no apples to give, and you are omni- 

scient without them: 
' 'Tis not for me to aspire — / cannot hope to 
persuade : 

* No — mais le phe de famille^ cest luiy dest mon- 

sieur voire mari — 

* Capable y celui-ldy de tout ; even of charming his 

wife!' — 
That was a neat little touch ; for he knew she was 
fond of Sir Harry: 



DOROTHY. 149 

Fond of him still — how strange ! after a dozen 
of years : 
Some ladies are, I perceive, thus cold and disdain- 
ful to others, 
Keeping a soft little heart warm for their hus- 
bands alone. 
Therefore, she brighten'd the more ; and answer'd, 
with elegant fervour, 

* Ah, Cousin Charles, you are still subtle and 

smooth, as of old ! 
*Well for the women at large you are now so 
devoted to serve them ; 

* If you took opposite views, what would become 

of us all? 

* Tell me — your excellent Bill to Regulate Female 

Employnienty 

* How does it work, man ami, on the Conserva- 

tive mind? 

* How are the Liberals pleased with that useful 

idea of coercion, 

* Telling a woman to do just what men say, and 

no more? 
'That wouldn't answer, of course, in the higher 
spheres of employment: 

* We must be absolute there — quite indepen- 

dent of jou ! 



ISO DOROTHY. 

* But, for the lower, 'tis well ; they have too much 

freedom already; 
'Working, like men almost, out in the open, 
alone ! 
' Would you believe — there are girls, yes, girls, 
on this very estate here, 

* Getting their living a-field, following horses at 

plough ! 

* Is it not dreadful, to think of such gross, un- 

feminine conduct? 
'■ Yet they are actually fond — fond, of such 
labour as that ! 

* They have been told it is wrong ; but what is 

the use of our teUing? 

* Nothing can stop it but you — you, and your 

excellent Bill. 
'Oh — a propos of these girls, my housekeeper 
tells me this morning 
*We have a little romance here, on the prem- 
ises, now ! 

* You condescend, I know, to the poor and their 

lowly enjoyments : 
*You too, perhaps, can endure Robin the 
keeper's romance? 

* Come — as we walk to the house, for I see it 

is breakfast time, nearly — 



DOROTHY. 151 

* I will discourse you of love ; love at the tall 

of the plough ! 

* Robin, you know — Robin George, Sir Harry's 

respected head keeper? 
*Such a head keeper, it seems, never was seen 
upon earth ! 
*Even in Scotland, forsooth, my husband must 
have his assistance, 
'Though you and Frank would arrive days be- 
fore he could return. 
*Well — Robert George has a house, of course, 
and an excellent income ; 
'Therefore, the women supposed he must be 
wanting a wife. 

* He, a fine well-to-do man, on the right side of 

thirty, or near it, 

* Sends a soft flutter of love all through the 

dovecotes around. 

* Every fair creature whose rank was sufficiently 

high and exalted, 

* Thought (so they tell me) at length she might 

become Mrs. George ! 

* Farmers' daughters, to wit — upper servants here 

at the Castle — 
'Tradesfolk in yonder town — schoolmistress 
there at the Glebe — 



152 DOROTHY.' 

* Ah, 'twas a mere travestie of what happens with 

lis, when a hero, 
' Blest with his ample estate, swoops on the 
county at large ! 
' One sweet nymph, it was thought, our Robert 
especially favour'd; 

* Mary of White Rose Farm : don't you delight 

in the name? 

* Most respectable girl — so they tell me, I never 

have seen her — 
' Money — an only child — really a suitable 
match ! 
*■ So that the rest, with a sigh and a shudder at 
Cupid's caprices, 

* Left him alone with his choice, gave him per- 

mission to woo. 

* Thus it went on ; but to-day — oh, horror of 

horrors — the news is 
' 'Tis not Mary at all; Robin refuses her 
love ! 

* 'Tis but a servant of theirs, a bondager bred on 

the homestead — 

* Some coarse creature, no doubt, following 

horses at plough. 
' Fancy, how shame and disgust run wild in the 
hearts of my maidens ! 



DOROTHY. 153 

'Women, you know, Cousin Charles, all are 
alike about this : 

* How should I feel — yes, and you — if some 

upstart citizen's daughter 
' Tangled dear Frank in her toils, forced the 
poor boy to propose? 

* Still, 'tis amusing enough, that grades so trivial 

in our eyes 
' Seem to the vulgar so large : what does it 
matter, at all, 

* Whether a keeper like George shall marry a 

farmer's daughter, 
' Or, a few levels below, stoop to the lowest of 
all? 
' So, I have taken his part ; for the girl, they 
confess, is goodlooking — 

* And I have views about that, even in cases 

like hers — 
' / have condoned his offence ; so the world must 
be pleased to be tranquil: 

* Even my housekeeper's tongue soon will be- 

gin to applaud ! 
' Nay, I have sanctioned the girl : for Robert has 
orders to bring her 
' Up to the Castle to-day, here to be judged 
and approved. 



154 DOROTHY. 

* Ah, by the way — if you like, you may witness 
that touching denoument : 
' Something may int'rest you there ; something 
germane to the Bill ! ' 



Grave and polite as he was, an attentive listener 
always, 
Int'rested really, it seem'd, e'en in so homely 
a tale, 
Colonel St. Quentin at last had certainly fretted 
a little; 
Just at the end — at the words * here to be 
judged and approved.' 
Haply, he thought to himself, 'Who cares for 
the loves of a keeper? 
* He and his lubberly wench, why should they 
trouble us here?' 
But, in his features composed, in his train'd and 
tutor'd expression, 
Nothing so rude could appear; everything 
beam'd, as it ought, 
Bicker'd and beam'd with delight — acquiescence 
disguised in effusion — 
' It was a charming idea ; yes, he would cer- 
tainly come.' — 



DOROTHY. 155 

They were arrived at the house, at the beautiful 
garden-entrance ; 
He, with a cousinly grace aptly enforced by a 
smile. 
Handed her Ladyship in, to the wainscoted oak, 
to the armour; 
Just as the gong had begun, handed her into 
the hall. 



Leave we them thus, with the guests, with the 
late luxurious breakfast: 
We to their exquisite joys may not presume to 
aspire ; 
We must go down to the farm, to White Rose 
Farm in the valley, 
Whither, on errands of love, Robin already has 
gone. 
He, with a mind confused, with a heart all troubled 
within him, 
Went on his errand of love : gladly he hasted 
to go; 
But, to be sent, to perceive that his sweetheart 
must come to be stared at — 
That was a doubtful thing; what should he 
think about that? 



156 DOROTHY. 

* Surely, my Lady means well — she means for to 

do us an honour — 

* And, for myself, I am glad ; glad to have Dor- 

othy seen; 

* So as the gentles may know, let alone them gos- 

siping servants, 

* She is a jewel, and worth — well, say a dozen 

o' them ! 

* But, she won't like it, I know ; she's afeard o' the 

housekeeper, even ; 
*What'll she think, to be brought straight to 
my Lady herself ? 

* Ay, and they'll stare at her clothes, at her hands, 

at her simple behaviour — • 

* 'Gad, I had liefer by half meet wi' yon poach- 

ers, alone ! ' — 

Thus while he walk'd in his mood, lo, Dolly her- 
self stood before him: 
She from a hedge close by sprang, with a hoe 
in her hand ; 

For she had finish'd her work in the field, and was 
off to her dinner, 
Ready — alas, how depraved ! ready for bacon 
and beer. 

' Oh, Mr. Robert, what, you ? ' ' Why, Dolly, my 
lassie, my darling ! ' 



DOROTHY. 157 

Few are the words that precede warm saluta- 
tions of love : 
Kisses — how novel and sweet are the first that 
follow betrothal ! 
Press'd upon lips that are now — yes, and for 
ever, your own. 
But, when their rapture was done (for it is but a 
fleeting enjoyment) 
Robin bethought him with pain how he should 
speak to the maid ; 
How he should break the bad news, the tale of 
that terrible order, 
Bidding her come, and so soon, up to Sir Har- 
ry's with him. 

* Dolly, love, don't be afeard ! You and me are 

to go to the Castle, 
*Just for an outing, you know — just for a bit 
of a spree ; 

* And I am glad, for I know there isn't a girl o' 

the servants — 
^ No, nor the ladies as well, fit to be reckon'd 

wi' you ! ' — 
' Go to the Castle !' she cried, 'What for? Oh no, 

Mr. Robert — 
* I canna do it, indeed — specially, going wi' 

yon I 



158 DOROTHY. 

* What would the housekeeper say, and the ladies* 

maids, ,and the housemaids? 

* Me to go trolloping there, bringing you trouble 

and shame ! ' — 

* Never you mind what they say ; and it isn't the 

housekeeper, neither: 
' Dolly, my Lady herself wants to set eyes upon 
you ! 

* And, when she sees you so fair, in your Sunday 

frock and your bonnet, 

* If she don't take to you theiiy I'll never trust 

her no more ! ' — 

Ah, it was vain, that appeal to the natural weak- 
ness of woman : 
Dolly's blue eyes were all dim — dim with her 
troublesome tears. 

' What ! ' she exclaim'd — * what, me, to go and 
be shown to my Lady ! 

* Me ! ' and she look'd at her clothes, look'd at 

her hardworking hands : 
' Oh, I should sink i' the earth ! Mr. Robert, you 
shouldn't have let her — 

* She'd never wish it, I'm sure, if she could see 

what I am. 

* Oh, get me off, if you can, get me off, for I 

couldn't abide it! 



DOROTHY. 159 

* Why, it might lose you your place, having a 

sweetheart like me ! ' — 

* Lose me my place ? ' said the swain, ' and be- 

cause I have you for a sweetheart ! 

* Marry come up, no indeed ! Nay, I shall 

make it secure ; 

* If she has sense, she must see what a wife you 

will make for a keeper, 
' Fit for to help him abroad, fit to be happy at 
home. 

* But, you must come : for she said I must bring 

you myself to the Castle: 

* Them was her positive words ! Dolly, you'll 

do it for me f ' — 



What can a woman refuse to the man whom she 

loves — to her master, 
So he be worthy to rule, so he be gentle and 

kind ? 
Then, his more equable strength, his mascuhne 

width of horizon. 
Justify her to herself, yielding her wishes to 

his; 
Specially, if she should feel, as Dorothy felt in 

her meekness. 



l6o DOROTHY. 

Being so young and so low, sadly unworthy of 
him. 
Dolly was strong as a horse — so the girls of the 
village would tell you — 
And she was tall as a man ; muscular, massive, 
and firm 
All through her large live limbs ; self-reliant in 
character, also, 
Needing no help in her work, asking for noth- 
ing — save love. 
Yet, being such and so strong, a rough undisci- 
plined servant. 
Able to fend for herself, used to act freely 
alone. 
Now that fair Eros was come, and had learn'd her 
the lore of a lover. 
She was as weak as the rest : mild as a minikin 
maid. 
Strange, when her great hard hand lay in his, as 
light as a lady's ! 
Strange, when her stalwart frame lean'd on his 
breast, like a child ! 
Strange ? Not at all ! 'Twas the sure, the instinc- 
tive teaching of Nature, 
Guiding the woman at once straight to the heart 
of the man. 



DOROTHY. l6l 

So, she has yielded at last : but tearfully still, and 
in terror; 
Dreading those gorgeous grandees lying in wait 
at the Squire's ; 
Dreading the smart sleek maids, and the gentle- 
folks, chiefly the ladies ; 
Dreading supremely, of course. Lady Sophia 
herself. 
Robert will stand by her side ? She falters a little, 
in asking: 
She will be near him, at least? Only, a little 
behind — 
Yes, just a little behind ; out of sight of the stran- 
gers, or nearly; 
Close to the doorway ; and so ready at once to 
escape? 
'Oh, but they'll speak to you, lass; they'll ask 
you a few little questions; * 
Speak ? What a terrible thought ! If she were 
forced to reply. 
Could he not do it instead ? He was used to the 
ways of the gentry: 
Couldn't he answer for her, saying — whatever 
he liked? — 
Yes, he has promised it all; has fondly, egre- 
giously promised 
II 



l62 DOROTHY, 

All that his Dolly could ask : more than he dared 
to perform. 



Soon — for they hurried along, each wrapt in 
thoughts of the other, 
And of those mighty events coming so near to 
them both — 
Soon, they arrived at the farm; in time for the 
noonday dinner. 
Little cared Dorothy, now, either for bacon or 
beer: 
But, when her mistress observed (having heard 
the great news of the summons) 
* If the fond lass won't eat, nothing can come o' 
the job,' 
She, with her heart in her mouth, sat down to the 
mug and the trencher, 
And, with an effort, at length finish'd her mor- 
sel of food. 
For, they had given her leave; and as for the 
afternoon milking, 
Foddering, feeding the pigs — Mary would see 
to all that. 
Was it not kind? Dolly thought: so like her 
Missis and Mary ! 



DOROTHY. 163 

Happen what might at the Squire's, they would 
be friends to her still. 
So, with a lighter heart, she went up anon to her 
attic ; 
Minded to deck herself out all in her very best 
things. 
Partly, for vanity? Well, who would dare to say 
No, with a woman? 
And, of her face and her form, Dolly had cause 
to be vain : 
But, of her treasures, ah no ! so rarely, so briefly, 
she wore them. 
New as they look'd, they were old ; old both in 
fashion and age. 
Dorothy knew it quite well : even she had an eye 
for the fashions : 
But she had nothing, save these ; they were her 
best, and her all. 
Partly for vanity, then, if you will, and partly for 
duty, 
Yet, if I know her at all, chiefly she wore them 
for love ; 
Not for the gentles alone, and to show her respect 
for my Lady — 
That was a duty, of course — but, she was going 
with him : 



1 64 DOROTHY, 

And, if indeed she were his, indeed acknowledged 
a sweetheart, 
She, with such honours in view, must look as 
well as she can. 
So that ere long she came down, in her brown 
straw cottager's bonnet. 
Graced with a little white cap circling her beau- 
tiful face; 
Graced too with ribbons — a bow at the side, and 
strings, and a curtain — 
Over her sunburnt neck spreading their virginal 
blue : 
Came in her green plaid shawl, with its soft vague 
chequer of purple : 
Came in her russet-grey frock, modestly made 
and severe; 
Sleeved to the wrists, of course ; descending quite 
to the ankles ; 
Not, like her everyday wear, kilted half way 
to the knee : 
Came in her best black boots; not heavy with 
earth and with iron, 
Huge, and unfit for the house, such as she com- 
monly wore; 
But a diminutive pair — not much too big for the 
Colonel; 



DOROTHY, 165 

Black'd (she had taken such pains) almost as 
brightly as his. — 
Such was her dress : for her face, it was rosy 
and fresh as the morning; 
Brown — like a cairngorm stone set in the 
gold of her hair: 
Delicate pale soft gold, lying smooth on her sun- 
smitten temples, 
Lighting the dusk of her cheek, rippling away 
to her ears. 
Ornaments? Nay, she had none ; save the brooch 
she had fasten'd her shawl with : 
'Twas Mr. Robert's last gift, bought at the 
Martlemas Fair. 
Oh — and her collar and cuffs : but, alas ! they 
were not ornamental; 
They were a contrast, a foil, deep'ning the hue 
of her skin; 
Surfaces polish'd and white, with the fine smooth 
texture of linen. 
Close to her sun-tann'd face, close to her rough, 
ruddy hands ! 
' That winna do,' thought the dame ; ' she looks 
browner and coarser than ever; 
*Yet she's goodlooking, I swear; ay, she's as 
bonny as good ! ' 



l66 DOROTHY, 

* Dolly,' she utter'd aloud, ' thou's fettled thysen 

to a T, lass ! 
'But, there is one thing still; hanna thee got 
any gloves ? ' 

* Gloves?' cried poor Dolly, aghast; 'why, Mis- 

sis, they baffle my hands so ! 
' I never wear 'em, you know ; scarce of a Sun- 
day, at church ! 
' But there's a pair upstairs, i' my box — I know 
it is somewheres — 

* Maybe they'll do for to-day ; if I can still 

get 'em on.' 
It was that old yellow pair, that were once her 
anonymous father's ; 
Left, by some chance, at the farm: sole remi- 
niscence of him. 

* Run for 'em, lass, ay, do ! It'll look more re- 

spectful to wear 'em ; 

* / know the gentlefolks' ways : happen they'd 

notice thy hands.' 

Robert had noticed them too ; but herself was 
the thing that he cared for; 
He was enamour'd of that — therefore, of every- 
thing^ else : 

And, as she stood there, he thought he never 
had seen her so charming; 



DOROTHY. 167 

Cleanly and sweet as she was, fit to be Queen 
of the May. 
When she came back with the gloves, and he kiss'd 
her (by leave of her Missis), 

* Isn't she bonny?' he cried; 'isn't she fit for 

a lord? 
' If there's a man or a maid finds fault with her, 
up at the Castle, 

* Gentles or not, it's all one — they'll ha* to 

reckon wi' me ! ' 
Which when the lover had said, with a mind to 
encourage his sweetheart. 
He with a hearty good-day, she with an anx- 
ious farewell, 
Bade their adieu to the twain, to the Missis and 
kindly Miss Mary; 
Went through the yard, through the croft, up 
by the path of the hill. 



Mother and daughter, the while, look'd after them 

out of the doorway; 
Silent at first; but ere long, briskly the mother 

bespake : 
* Well, I could like to be there — I could like to 

ha' been in among 'em, 



l68 DOROTHY. 

'Just to ha* seen him again; just to make 

sure it was him.* — 
\ Who, mother?' — 'Didn't you see, in the lane, 

quite early this morning, 
'Somebody staring about, dolloping round by 

the yard? 

* Looking for Dolly, mayhap ! But she wasn't 

in sight, for a wonder; 

* She was a-milking, you know; 'long o' the 

cows, i* the byre. 
' Mary, it's twenty good year — twenty-one, come 
Mothering Sunday — 

* Since he was here at the farm, him and his 

dandering ways ! 

* But, I could tell him at once, though his hair 's 

got as grey as my master's : 

* Just the same sodgering walk ; eyeglass, mous- 

taches, an' all. 

* He'll be some kin at the house ; to Sir Harry, 

or else to my Lady: 

* That's how it is, I'll awand ! He's at the 

Castle, no doubt' — 

* Eh, what a thing, if it's true ! ' cried Mary, lost 

in amazement; 

* Him at the Castle? Why then, surely he'll 

see her to-day ! 



DOROTHY. 169 

* What will he do, do you think? Will he know 

who she is? Will he own her? 

* Well, if he does, only think ! Dolly's a lady, 

at once ! ' — 

* OwJt herV the Missis replied, 'own Dolly, and 

make her a lady? 
*Ay — make a soft silk purse out of a sow's 
leather ear ! 

* Nay, you may trust him, my lass — he'll none 

let 'em see 'at he owns her — 

* Let me alone, though, for that ; / can speak 

up what I know ! ' — 

* Nay, mother, don't ! ' said the girl ; * our Dolly 

knows nothing about it; 

* Nor Mr. Robert, of course ; nobody knows, 

but oursels: 

* It 'd do nothing but harm ; for my Lady would 

never believe it; 
*And, if she took it amiss, what 'd become o' 
them two ? ' 



Thus while they fondly discoursed on the chances 
of Dorothy's birthright, 
She and her lover advanced up the steep path 
of the hill ; 



170 DOROTHY. 

Up to the top of the cHfif, where the martins build 
in the springtime; 
Up through the hazels beyond ; up through the 
fields, to the park. 
There — for already in sight the Castle appeared 
in the distance — 
There, with a beating heart, Dorothy falter'd 
and paused : 
Wondering how she should look, how behave, in 
that terrible palace ; 
Vainly, with fingers untrain'd, striving — to put 
on her gloves ! 
They were too small; they were old; they were 
never intended for her hands: 
How could her broad hard palm bend to the 
flexible kid? 
' Oh, Mr. Robert,' said she, ' it'll do if I carry 'em, 
won't it? 

* Gloves ! They was never, I sure, meant for 

such creatures as me ! 
' I'm not ashamed o' my hands ; and if you don't 
want me to wear 'em — 

* These little pottering things — do let me throw 

'em away ! ' 
* Nay, never throw 'em away ; never lose a good 
thing when you've got it; 



DOROTHY. 171 

* But, for your hands, Dolly dear, show 'em and 
welcome, for me ! ' 
So, with the gloves in her grasp, just to prove that 
she own'd such a treasure, 
Dorothy foUow'd her swain up to that dreaded 
abode : 
Up through the stables, and thence by the shrub- 
bery path to the courtyard. 
Where, in their splendid attire, footmen and 
housemaids appear'd. 
Ah, how they stared ! Dolly thought ; and her 
cheeks grew as red as a rooster. 
Ah, how that bold little maid toss'd up her nose 
in the air ! 
But, it was over and done — they were safe in the 
house, in a moment; 
Safe in that solemn domain round Mrs. JelHfer's 
door. 
She, Mrs. Jellifer, sat in her sacred though stuffy 
apartment, 
Thinking of Robert; in doubt how to behave 
to his bride : 
How to be friendly to him, and still show her teeth 
at his sweetheart: 
How to be civil, and yet teach the rude hussy 
her place. 



172 DOROTHY, 

But, with the knock at her door, with the advent 

of Robert and Dolly, 
All this tremendous intent vanish'd at once into 

air. 
'Twas not the beautiful face; 'twas the curtsey 

poor Dorothy made her. 
Which with its artless respect soften'd the heart 

of the dame. 
Shyly then Robert began : ' Mrs. Jellifer, this is 

my sweetheart; 

* Dolly, you know, at the farm ; come for my 

Lady to see ! ' — 
' Oh yes, I know,' said the dame : ^ and how do 
you do, Mr. Robert? 

* Nay, then — shake hands with a friend, wishes 

you happy, I'm sure ! ' 
But, while she gave him her hand, and he wrung 

it with masculine vigour, 
Dolly came into her mind : must she shake 

hands too with herf 
Nay, that was not in the bond ; and the wench 

wouldn't dare to expect it: 
Look you, how sheepish she stands, waiting, 

aback o' the door ! 
But it was Robert's resolve, that Dorothy shouldn't 

be slighted: 



DOROTHY. 173 

So, with the least little wink, least little push 
from behind, 
' Dolly, love, don't be afeard ! ' he said, * Mrs. 
Jellifer 's waiting ; 
'She's been a friend to us both — she's got a 
welcome for you.' 
Honest entrapper of sneaks, courageous destroyer 
of vermin. 
Made virtute, my man ! Woman 's outwitted, 
for once ! 
For, at his artful appeal, the housekeeper redden'd 
a little. 
Saw she must do it, and so might as well do it 
with grace; 
Said, with an affable air, * Young woman, I see you 
are lucky — ' 
'Lucky?' cried Robert, 'Nay, come! surely, 
it's me 'at's in luck ! ' 
' Lucky, I say,' quoth the dame, ' to ha' got 
such an excellent husband ; 
* Which there's a many, my girl, gladly 'ud 
stand i' your shoes ! 
'Not but I wishes you well; ' and she smiled, 
condescending and gracious ; 
Smiled, and — incredible feat ! — boldly ex- 
tended her hand. 



174 DOROTHY. 

But, when she felt such a palm as Dorothy timidly 
offer'd, 
Rasping her soft mottled skin e'en with its 
modest embrace, 
Quickly she dropp'd it; and said, with a start (just 
a little affected), 
* You've got a hardworking place, judged by 
the feel o' your hand ! ' 
* Yes, ma'am,' said Dolly, 'it is ; it's a hardwork- 
ing place, but a good one; 
' I should be sorry to leave yet, if it wasn't for 
him ! 
' But, Mr. Robert is kind ; and Missis '11 still be a 
neighbour; 
' I shall be always at hand, ready to help on the 
farm.' 
' Fool ! ' thought the dame : and perhaps she had 
lectured the girl on her folly, 
But, with a ladylike knock, somebody enter'd 
the room. — 
Ha! 'tis my Lady herself! 'tis ^owinq iroTvia 

Come to observe, to assist, labouring mortals 
below ; 
Come to inspect and approve Briseis, captive and 
servant : 



DOROTHY. 175 

Come to behold for herself sturdy Achilles in 
love ! 
Gorgeous in afternoon dress, prepared for a drive 
in the carriage, 
Fresh from the hands of her maid, she, the 
Immortal, appears: 
Clad — but I dare not describe ; for, before you 
have finish'd describing. 
Out goes the fashion ; and then, 'tis but a vulgar 
array. 
Ah, what a flutter there was, when that glory of 
velvet and odours, 
Mantled and feather'd and furr'd, enter'd the 
housekeeper's room ! 
Foohsh Briseis, and fond, sought refuge behind 
her Achilles, 
Curtseying once and again, deeper than ever 
before : 
E'en Mrs. Jellifer's dress, that was almost as long 
as my Lady's, 
Show'd, by its faltering folds, something was 
supple within ; 
As for bold Robin, he stood, erect yet wholly 
respectful ; 
Grave, with a manly regard, lifting a hand to his 
brow. 



i;6 DOROTHY. 

But, for the Goddess herself, just come from a 
luncheon of nectar, 
Down to these commonplace folks, purely from 
motives of love, 
Can we sufficiently praise her majestic matronly 
manner? 
Can we — ah, never, alas ! — fully express it 
in words? 
No ! we must leave that to you, intelligent exqui- 
site reader, 
You, who have fed on the sweets, lain in the 
lihes, of life; 
You, who can quite understand the vast, the in- 
credible distance 
Which in a world like ours, orderly, proper, and 
proud. 
Spreads from my Lady on high, the Earl's daugh- 
ter, the queen of the county, 
Down to poor Dolly the maid, following horses 
at plough ! 
Distance! Her ladyship's dress — her velvet and 
furs, and her odours. 
Jewels and feathers and lace, cambric, diminu- 
tive gloves — 
Oh, what a contrast, you say, to Dolly's short 
frock and straw bonnet, 



DOROTHY. 177 

And to her old plaid shawl, and to her bare 
rugged hands ! 
Yes ; but the contrast indeed, the antipodean 
exemplar. 
Is not alone in the dress — is in the wearers 
themselves ; 
One, a strange marvel of art and civilization and 
culture, 
Wrought till the natural ground hardly again 
shall appear; 
As for the other, she has common-sense and sim- 
plicity only; 
Nature and Labour alone went to the making 
of her. 
But there is somebody else — there is somebody 
else in the background ; 
Not unattended, it seems, Her^ descends from 
above : 
Who can this deity be, with the glossy and tutor'd 
moustaches, 
Eyeglass, and soldierly air? — Colonel St. 
Quentin, by Jove ! 
Rather surprising, it is, when the great Parlia- 
mentary Colonel 
Swoops from his Liberal bench down to a house- 
keeper's room ! 

12 



178 DOROTHY. 

So Mrs. Jellifer thought; though she didn't quite 
put it in that way: 

* As for my Lady/ she thought, * why, it is all 

very well; 
' But for the Colonel to come prying after a couple 
o' sweethearts, 

* That is uncommonly odd, very demeaning to 

him ! ' 

Robert, however, was glad ; he had often attended 
the Colonel, 
Often been handsomely tipp'd — ay, and deserv- 
edly too; 

And, with a natural pride, he thought, * He has 
heard, from the master, 

* And, like a gentleman, comes kindly a-wishing 

us well.' 

As for our Dolly, she stared ; she did not re- 
member the Colonel; 
Curtsey'd and trembled and stared, wondering 
who it might be: 

Thinking that one was enough, and two was sadly 
too many: 
' Gentlefolks coming down here, just to make 
fun o' poor me ! ' 

Simpleton ! Little she knew of ySowTrt? iroTvia 
"HpT] : 



DOROTHY. 179 

Little could she understand how the Immortals 
behave ! 
They were as foreign to her as they will be, ere 
long, to her betters ; 
When o'er the studies of Youth, Science is 
voted supreme — 
When we have done with the past, and its accu- 
rate elegant wisdom ; 
When in all Enghsh schools Greek is for ever 
taboo'd. 



Not with the icy disdain that our ignorant Dolly 
expected, 
Not with the haughty contempt dear to a Jel- 
lifer's heart, 
But with a heavenly smile, inexpressibly sweet 
and superior. 
Helping her low rich voice, thus did the god- 
dess begin : — 

* Robert, I see you are come — and Sir Harry 

expressly desired it — 
* Here, with the girl of your choice, into a circle 
of friends ! 

* For you have served us so well, you have been 

such an excellent keeper, 



l8o DOROTHY. 

' We are entitled, you know, thus to be friendly 
with you. 

* And, for myself, I have wish'd to make the young 

woman's acquaintance, 

* Knowing how well you deserve all that a 

woman can give. 

* Yes ' — and the light of her charms shone full 

on the tremulous Dolly — 

* Yes, you are happy, my girl ! And I am 

sure you are good : 

* I have inquired ; I find you have long been an 

excellent servant; 

* So we may justly presume you will do well as 

a wife. 

* Still, I was hardly prepared — I had not been 

told of your beauty: 
'Where have you hid it? and why have I not 
seen you before?' — 
Why ? Pretty question, indeed ! For how should 
her ladyship notice 
Dolly at work on the farm, Dolly a-field with 
the plough? 
Ere they had time to reply, the amiable goddess 
continued — 

* Is she not handsome, Charles? Has he not 

chosen with taste? 



DOROTHY. l8l 

'Yes, you are comely, my child; I declare, you 
are beautiful, really ! 

* And you have sense, I perceive — far too much 

sense to be vain. 

* Tell me your name, and your age?' And Doro- 

thy curtsey'd, and told it: 
' Ah, 'tis a charming old name ; fresh as the 
scent of the hay ! 

* Dorothy, when you come home to your hus- 

band's house by the cover, 

* I shall inspect you, and see, some day, how 

happy you are.' 
'Thank you, my Lady, I'm sure,' said Robert; 
* that will be an honour ! ' 
Dorothy echoed his words — ' Thank you, my 
Lady, I'm sure ! ' 
Thinking, however, far more of that vision of 
home and a husband, 
Offer'd so kindly, and now nearer than ever to 
her. 
' But,' said my Lady once more, ' I must not keep 
you all standing; 
' You, Mrs. Jellifer, know what I should wish 
to be done ; 

* You have already, no doubt, offer'd tea to your 

guests — or a supper — 



1 82 DOROTHY. 

* Not in the servants* hall ; here, in your own 

pretty room. 

* And there is one thing yet : for, Robert, you 

know at a wedding 

* Brides must have everything new, everything 

proper and smart: 

* So ' — and she turn'd to the maid — 'you must 

let me make you a present; 

* Something to buy you a dress such as your 

beauty deserves.' 
Then, from a perfumed purse, with gloved and 
delicate fingers. 
Something she drew, with a smile : Dorothy, 
blushing and brown. 
Held out her own poor hand, reluctantly forced 
to reveal it; 
Curtsey'd and humbly replied, ' Thank you, my 
Lady,' again. 
But when her ladyship's eyes caught sight of 
poor Dorothy's fingers, 
And when the tips of her gloves touch'd that 
astonishing hand. 
Startled, she lifted her brows, and with wonder 
and horror and pity 
Gazed on the grey hard palm, bright with the 
polish of toil: 



DOROTHY. 183 

Gazed, and look'd up from the hand to the 
beautiful face of its owner; 
Then from that feminine face back to the la- 
bourer's hand : 
Seeming about to exclaim, to ask of that terrible 
contrast : 
Checking herself in the act, only for Dorothy's 
sake — 
Dolly, who never observed that fearful, that fatal 
impression : 
Dolly, who, had she been ask'd, would not have 
minded at all ; 
Would but have artlessly said, * It's work, if you 
please, ma'am, has done it; 
* Work, that has harden'd my hands ; work, that 
has made 'em so big ! ' 



Now, with this harrowing scene, this sad revela- 
tion, before him, 
How did the Colonel behave? What did it 
please him to do? 
He too came forward, and smiled ; and said, ' For 
the sake of your lover 
* You must allow me, my girl, some little share 
in your joy ! 



l84 _ DOROTHY. 

'Robert I know and respect; he will make you 
a very good husband ; 

* And I may safely predict you'll be an excel- 

lent wife : 
' So, as a friend to you both — one gladly assured 
of your welfare — 

* I would present you with this, merely to pur- 

chase the ring.' 
Most of his beautiful words (ah me, in the Par- 
liament Chamber, 
How many beautiful words falter unheeded 
away ! ) — 
Most of his elegant words, in their incomprehen- 
sible beauty, 
Pass'd over Dorothy's head, left her as wise as 
before ; 
But she received what he gave — received it in 
lowly confusion ; 
Curtseying ; murmuring still, ' Thank ye, Sir, 
thank ye, I'm sure ! * 
Till, for a crown of the whole, a startling thrilling 
finale^ 
Just as my Lady had turn'd, waving a gracious 
farewell, 
* Now,' said the Colonel, * good-bye ! Although 
I am almost a stranger, 



DOROTHY. 185 

* I must confess that I wish — heartily wish — 
to shake hands ! ' 
Nay, she was helpless, and cow'd : for the thing 
was all done in a moment: 
Ere she could beg a reprieve, ere she could 
utter a word, 
He, with an exquisite pose^ with a graceful, a 
fatherly congi, 
Lifting her hand, had convey'd part of it into 
his own ! 
Part of her tell-tale palm in his soft though mas- 
culine fingers 
Rested a moment ; and why — why did it make 
him afraid? 
Why did the warrior turn pale, and, his grasp on 
a sudden relaxing, 
Bid her a hasty adieu, striding away to the 
door? 
Haply, that touch of her hand reveal'd to the 
affable Colonel 
What a tremendous abyss sever'd our Dolly 
from him : 
Rank, education, mind; even make and outward 
appearance. 
All were against her, you see: all, save her 
beautiful face. 



l86 DOROTHY. 

Yet, what of that? What else could one ever 
expect, in a servant? 
Was it not kind, though, of him, taking such 
interest in herf 
Or, was it only his Bill to Regulate Female Em- 
ployment 
Made him attentive to her — just to see what 
she was like? 



Well, they are gone then, at last; my Lady, and 
also the Colonel: 
After such efforts as theirs, sure they are glad 
to depart: 
Ah, what a sense of rehef ! for them, to escape 
from the vulgar; 
And for the vulgar, alas ! just to be left to 
themselves. 
Good Mrs. Jellifer's tongue was tied by her lofty 
position ; 
Robert's by duty and pride; Dolly was mod- 
estly mute ; 
But in their hearts all three were saying * Thank 
goodness, it's over; 
* Quality's done with us now : now we can talk 
at our ease ! ' 



DOROTHY. 187 

First, in her ample armchair the housekeeper flung 
herself, sighing 

* Now, Mr. Robert, sit down ; see, there's an- 

other armchair. 

* Dolly, you've come like a wife — we must reckon 

you one of ourselves, lass; 
' And you've been standing so long : nay, you 
must really sit down ! ' 
So, in that presence august — an earnest of mat- 
ronly glories — 
Even our Dolly, although shy and unwilling, 
sat down ; 
And, round the fire, at peace, they talk'd of the 
Past and the Future, 
How the great folks had behaved : when should 
the wedding-day be. 
' Dolly,' said Robert at length, ' how much did 
the gentlefolks give thee? 

* Thou's getting rich, I'll awand — two wedding 

presents at once ! ' 

* Nay,' said poor Dolly, * I sure they was nothing 

but pieces o* paper; 

* One's i' my pocket, and one here — stuck in- 

side o' my hand.' 
' Paper, you innocent thing ! ' cried Robert, ' why, 
this is a bank-note ! 



1 88 DOROTHY. 

* This is a Five-Pound Note ; ay, and yon 

t' other's a Ten ! 
'Which did her ladyship give? And which one 
come fro' the Colonel?' 

* This be the Colonel's,' she said : ' this, with a 

scribble o' Ten. 
* How could I know what they was ? I never ha' 
seen nothing like 'em: 

* Never, i' my born days, seed such a paper as 

yon ! ' — 
Robert beheld her and smiled : her ignorance 
never displeased him; 
But Mrs. Jenifer's laugh burst like a shell in the 
air. 
Eh, what a story was this, when time and occasion 
should offer! 
Eh, what a choice of a wife Robert, poor 
Robert, had made ! 
Still (for she knew very well that my Lady exacted 
obedience) 
She, for the sake of the swain, suffer'd our Dolly 
to stay; 
Nay, condescended at length to be grimly and 
grandly benignant: 
Asking of this and of that: hoping she wasn't 
afeard. 



DOROTHY. 189 

So that the stillroom-maid, coming up to Pugs' 
Parlour* for orders, 
Bore to her fellows downstairs news of a mighty 
event : 
How that Deceitful Old Thing has company out 
o* the common — 
Not the head keeper, of course ; he was a natu- 
ral guest — 
But the low wench from the farm, as they say he 
is going to marry : 
She is up there, if you please ! sits, where her 
betters must stand ! 
Ay, and she's going to have tea — tea and toast, 
and the company teapot — 
Just like a real lady's-maid, 'long of Old Jelly 
herself. 
Ay, and I listen'd, and heard — I, Emma, the 
maid of the stillroom — 
Heard 'em go on about gifts, what has been give 
to the girl : 
Money, and dresses, and that: and how wonder- 
ful good o* the Colonel, 

* The name given by kitchenmaids and suchlike creatures to a 
housekeeper's or lady's-maid's room, wherein they may not adven- 
ture to appear. 



190 DOROTHY, 

Giving as much as he did ; more nor my Lady 
herself! — 
r' Bah ! If the homely affairs, the hard honest toil, 
of a kitchen 
Bear to be treated in song (yes, and, believe 
me, they do; 
Being a part of our life, of the drama of human 
existence. 
Neither unfitted to breed womanly natures and 
pure) 
Yet in their baser forms — and all things droop 
into baseness, 
Idly forsaking the work Nature has set them 
to do — 
They have a look so depraved, so deeply and 
darkly disgusting, 
Even the tolerant Muse shudders, and passes 
\ them by. 

Not that these vices are worse than the scandal 
and spite of the parlour: 
Nay, when exhibited thus, wholly repulsively 
bare, 
They to intelligent eyes represent but the sins of 
our own class. 
Seen as they are indeed, stript of each graceful 
disguise. 



DOROTHY. 191 



< Leave we them, then : for at least they have noth- 
ing to do with our Dolly; 
She, though the lowest of all, envied not others 
who climb : 
She, too obscure to be base, too simple of heart 
to be vulgar, 
Rested content with her lot; finding her happi- 
ness there : 
Finding all happiness there, as they two walk'd 
home in the moonlight, 
Robert and Dolly, alone under the favouring 
skies ; 
Rapt in that silent hour of intense ineffable 
union 
Granted, just once in a life, if they deserve It, 
to all. 
For, in the hush of the night, in the stillness of 
woodland and valley, 
Robert and Dorothy heard voices as clear as 
their own : 
Voices, too rare for the ear, but quick as Its life 
to the spirit. 
Telling of infinite hope, uttermost love and 
desire ; 



192 DOROTHY, 

Promising joys that would come when the sweet 
church bells should have ended — 
Joys in a work-a-day world never, ah, never 
fulfill'dj 



Yet, there was joy sincere, there was genuine 
hearty emotion, 
Then, when the sweet church bells rang for our 
Dorothy's day: 
When she came back from the church, with Miss 
Mary herself for her bridesmaid. 
Back to dear White Rose Farm, back to the 
hearts of her friends; 
When, at the last, she went on her husband's arm, 
in the evening, 
Up to her own new home under the skirts of 
the wood : 
Up to the keeper's house, that lonely and lovable 
cottage 
Set in a pure green thwaite close to the shel- 
tering trees ; 
Listening at even and morn to the musical sigh 
of the pinewoods ; 
Gazing o'er garden and garth down to the light 
of the stream. 



DOROTHY, 193 

Yes, there was joy — and surprise : for, lo ! at 
the wedding dinner, 
Set by the sugar'd cake Missis had bought for 
her Maid, 
Lay such a letter — a real large envelope, brought 
by the postman : 
Written ' at White Rose Farm ; ' written ' to 
Dorothy George.' 
Dorothy George? Who is that? * Why, Dolly, 
lass, has thou forgotten 
' All 'at has happen'd to-day, all 'at we've prom- 
ised in church? 
* Didn't I promise to love and honour and worship 
thee always? 
' Didn't thou take me for thine — all of me, 
even my name ? ' — 
Dorothy blush'd at the thought: at last then, this 
day of her wedding, 
She had an honest name ; ay, and a name that 
was his ! 
His name, come to be hers : her own, to last her 
a lifetime : 
Telling inquisitive folks whom she belong'd to, 
and how. 
Ah, what a wonderful thing — what an honour, 
she thought, what a blessing ! 
13 



194 DOROTHY. 

Why, did you ever, she thought, see such a 
thing as this here — 
Me, sitting up so smart, with him^ at the top o' 
the table; 
Me^ 'at was servant till now, standing, and wait- 
ing on all. 
But, for her letter, she said, * I canna tell what to 
do with it: 
' It's the uncommonest job ever I had i' my 
Hfe ! ' 
* Open it, lass ! ' they cried ; and with awkward 
innocent fingers 
She for the very first time open'd a letter, and 
read — 
Rather, attempted to read : for the lawyer's jargon 
within it 
Bore, to her unwarp'd mind, hardly a meaning 
at all ; 
So that she handed it soon to the lord of her 
heart, to her bridegroom, 
Whispering, ' You '11 maybe read ; / canna skill 
it, indeed ! ' — 



' Colonel St. Quentin ' it said (for we render it 
now into English) — 



DOROTHY, 195 

* Colonel St. Quentin has heard much about 

Dorothy George; 

* How she has hved all her hfe in one respectable 

service : 
' How she is known as a girl quiet, hardworking, 
and good. 
' And he has seen for himself that this character 
does not beHe her: 

* Modest, he sees her to be; capable, comely, 

and kind. 
'Also, he knows Robert George for an able and 
excellent keeper; 

* One who ' — but here Mr. George skipp'd a 

few words as he read — 

* One who richly deserves, being an honest man 

and a true one, 

* Thus to obtain his desire ; thus to be blest in 

a wife. 

* Therefore, to mark his sense of this happy and 

suitable marriage, 

* Colonel St. Quentin himself wishes to portion 

the bride : 

* Giving her money to spend, and something to 

bring to her husband ; 

* So that she shall not arrive quite like a penni- 

less maid. 



196 DOROTHY. 

'And he has placed In the Funds, in her hus- 
band's name — for he trusts him — ' 
* Ay, he may well ! ' cried George ; ' sure, every 
penny's her own — 
'But, what is this, that he says? My goodness, 
why, it's a fortune ! 
'Neighbours, you mustn't suppose Pve had a 
hand in all this — 
' But he's a gentleman born, is the Colonel, if ever 
there was one ! 
' Well, it's Five Himdred Pounds — all for my 
Dolly and me ! ' — 
Fancy the joy and surprise, the wonder, and also 
the envy. 
Roused by such tidings as these, fresh from the 
Colonel himself! 
Fancy the change that was wrought, instanter^ in 
Dorothy's favour — 
She, unimpeachably now proved a most suitable 
match ! 
Nay, it was Robert, it seem'd, not Dolly, who 
ought to be envied : 
Robert, obtaining with her all that a marriage 
should give. 
Fancy, the folk, how they stared ! From the 
Master and Missis and Mary 



DOROTHY, 197 

Down to old Carter John, down to that Billy 
the boy; 
Down to that pert little Poll ; who declared, to 
have luck like our Dolly's, 
She were content to have hands almost as 
dreadful as hers. 
Fancy poor Dolly herself, her turmoil of pride 
and confusion. 
Hearing such praise of herself utter'd in pres- 
ence of all; 
Thinking, while those fine words were read by 
the lips of her darling, 

* Why has the Colonel wrote? What should he 

know about mef 

As for the money, it seem'd an enormous incred- 
ible marvel: 
Only she thought with herself, * Maybe, it's bet- 
ter for him; 

* When I get old, too old to work and do for 
my husband, 

* Pr'aps it'll serve for us both ; yes, it'll keep 

us, and more ! * 



But, when the guests were gone, when even the 
bride had departed — 



198 DOROTHY. 

For she had stay'd to the end ; habit, affection, 
and choice 
Making her eager to work; and, as if she were 
still of the household. 
Wrought as a servant still ; clearing the tables 
away, 
Bustling at this and at that, with her sleeves 
tuck'd up to her elbows; 
Teaching the new-found maid how to inherit 
her place: 
And, when all this was done, she, Dorothy, tear- 
ful and tender. 
Clung to her mistress still, clung to the house 
that she loved ; 
Thanking them oft and again for the wedding 
bonnet, the dinner; 
Grateful, but wholly untaught how to express 
it in words : 
Saying, she hoped they would still let her help 
in the washing and cleaning; 
Hoped they would send for her still, still let 
her work on the farm : 
And at the last, with a kiss — yes, a kiss — from 
Missis and Mary, 
And from her Master, a warm grasp of his 
fatherly hand ; 



DOROTHY. 199 

She, with a smile and a blush, clinging fast to 
the arm of her Robert, 
Went to her own new home, up by the skirts 
of the wood; 
Where, among sheltering trees, soft breezes blow 
of an evening; 
Where, over garden and garth, shimmers the 
light of the stream. 



Then, when the guests were gone, and Robert 

and Dolly departed. 
And in the kitchen remain'd Missis and Mary 

alone ; 
Then, with triumphant air, did the good wife say 

to her daughter, 
'Didn't I tell it thee, lass? Didn't I say it was 

him ? 
' Dost not remember them gloves our Dorothy 

left at the Squire's, 

* What Mrs. Jellifer brought home in her pocket, 

to-day? 
* Well — I had known all along, Dolly had 'em 
upstairs in her attic : 

* They was her father's gloves ; all 'at was left 

her of /ii7n. 



200 DOROTHY. 

* Ay, for I kept 'em for her ; never thinking, nor 

never expecting, 

* He would turn up Hke this : him, and his Grif- 

fin, an' all ! 

* He had a Griffin, you know, on the seal what 

he put to his letters : 
*Well — when I look'd i' them gloves, there was 
the Griffin, inside ! 
' Nay, there it was, sure enough ; I could tell it, 
as easy as ever: 

* And there was writing as well ; C, and a bonny 

St. Q. ! 
'What does that stand for, eh? Why, of course 
it stands for the Colonel: 

* Didn't they call him Charles ? Isn't St. Quentin 

his name? 
*Look — for I've gotten 'em here; I kept 'em, to 
show to the master: 

* This '11 persuade him, I lay; this '11 speak out 

if it's true ! 
' Well — as our parson says, it's wonderful, even 
in this world, 

* How many things comes out, folks 'd be glad 

to keep in : 

* Think of a man such as him, a Parliament man 

and a Colonel, 



DOROTHY. 20I 

' Having a daughter like her^ bred to the work 
of a farm ! 

* Lass, it's a senseless thing, and clean contrary 

to Natur: 

* Ay, an' he's rued it, an' all ; you may be cer- 

tain o' that. 
' Still, he's behaved this day like a gentleman 
born, has the Colonel : 

* Giving such money as yon : making her happy 

for life. 

* Money? What more could he do, for a wench 

'at is only a servant? 

* Married above her, indeed ! What's a head- 

keeper to him ? 
' No ! An' I'll never no more have the heart to 
say nothing again him ; 

* Never ! I reckon he's done all such a father 

could do. 

* And I ha' settled in mind, an' thou must prom- 

ise me, Mary, 

* Never to tell o' this tale ; not to let Dorothy 

know. 

* Why, she was fit to burst out, if ever one spoke 

of her father; 

* Maybe, she'd think it a sin, touching his money 

at all. 
/ 



202 DOROTHY. 

* Telling 'ud do her no good : a father she couldn't 

get on with; 

* Him and his gentlefolks' ways, what are they 

good for, to her'^ 

* Ay, and our Robert as well, ke wouldn't be glad 

of it, neither: 

* Keeper, and him with a wife known to be kin 

to the Squire ! 

* No — we must leave 'em alone wi' their luck ; and 

well they deserve it: 

* Dolly was daughter, almost — more nor a ser- 

vant — to me ; 

* Almost a sister to thee : and one thing I'll tell 

thee. Miss Mary; 
*We shall be lucky indeed, finding her equal 
again ! ' 



Venit smnma dies, et ineluctabilis hora ! 
Yes — we have come to the end, come to the 
Colonel, at last. 
Where has he gone? Why, of course he has 
gone to the South, for the winter: 
When shall we see him again? Why, with the 
Session, of course. 



DOROTHY. 203 

Session, or rather, indeed, that happier period, 
the Season; 
Not for St. Stephen's alone lives the society 
man: 
When the asparagus comes ; when salmon is fresh 
at the table; 
When from their premature beds strawberries 
enter, and cream ; 
When there are people in town, and one rides in 
the park as a duty, 
Then too shall you, the Advanced, welcome 
your Colonel again. 
\ Ah, he will come with his Bill to Regulate Female 
Employjnent I 
Ready for action again : true to each popular 
cry: 
Ready once more to preside, with eloquence sweet 
and perennial, 
Over his feminine friends, champions of Free- 
dom and Light: 
He, with his crotchety men and his masculine 
angular women, 
Fighting — and who is their foe? Only Dame 
Nature herself, — 
* See,' cry the feminine men and the gaunt irre- 
pressible women, 



204 DOROTHY. 

* See, how a woman goes bound, fetter'd, and 

crippled, through Hfe ! 

* Robb'd, by the envy of man, of all share in his 

active employments : 

* Left to her piteous career — sewing, or teach- 

ing, or shame ! ' 
Granted, O eloquent men, O gaunt irrepressible 

ladies ! 
Granted : and what would you have ? What 

do you wish us to do? — 
*Do? Why, admit her, of course, to a share in 

those active employments; 

* Give her the option at least, whether she'll 

have it or no ; 

* Give her a voice and a vote : if we must have 

laws to be bound by, 

* Let her at any rate feel s/ie had a hand in them 

all' — 
Oh, my adorable friends, my eager irascible 
females. 
Have you such faith in your sex? Do you, 
ah, do you desire 
They should be free to work; no longer con- 
founded with children 
(* Women and Children,' you know — t/iat is 
the Parliament phrase) ; 



DOROTHY. 205 

Using what labour they Uke, as strength and as 
Nature allows it, 
Freely and fairly, hke men: shut out from 
nothing, save crime? 
Then I demand your applause for my tale, just 
happily ended: 
How you must love and admire hardworking 
Dorothy George ! 
'Love and admire V cry they, with screams of 
angry derision — 
'Love and admire a wench, following horses at 
plough ! 
*Love and admire hard hands, all rugged and 
horny with labour — 
* Thick red muscular arms — shoulders as broad 
as a man's ! 
'What! Do you seriously think that these are 
the rights of us women? 
'Booby! and can you suppose this is the goal 
we desire? 
' No, we have loftier views : if we offer to share 
your employments, 
' Tis but the higher we want — such as are 
pretty and nice : 
' Such as bring fortune and fame, and honour and 
early preferment: 



206 DOROTHY, 

' Such as our Colonel enjoys — such as would 
never suit you ! 
'As for those coarse-grain'd slaves, those ignorant 
arduous creatures 

* Brutal with open-air work, toiling like Dorothy 

George, 
' They shall be stopp'd — that's all ! Their work 
isn't fit for a woman : 

* Man, the sole drudge of the earth, man shall 

perform it, alone.' 



Ah then, my logical friends, most courteous and 
candid of ladies. 
Now we can quite understand — 7iow we con- 
ceive you, at last ! 

I' 

Now it is clear that your Bill to Regulate Female 

Employment 
Q Regulate' — excellent word! same as abolish, 

I see) 
Means to abolish at least one half of Woman's 

employments : 
Means to diminish her rights : means to imprison 

her will. 
This, we perceive, is the use you would make of 

your votes, if you had them : 



DOROTHY. 207 

Voting restriction of rights sacred and strong as 
your own ! 



Thus, if a maiden there be (thank God, there are 
many in England) 
Muscular, hearty, and strong; fitted for out o' 
door work; 
Eager to do it, and apt for farm work, field work, 
pit work; 
She must abandon it all: she must be govern'd 
by you ! 
True, she has strength and skill, and liking and 
taste, for her labour: 
True, that the labour itself has not a touch of 
reproach : 
Yet she must yield, and withdraw to the ways and 
the work of a weakling; 
Wasting her strength indoors, losing her cher- 
ish'd employ. 
Facts ? What are facts, if you please, when theo- 
ries choose to ignore them? 
When, in the place of good-sense, sentiment 
models the law? 



208 DOROTHY. 

Fools ! (for I answer you now in your own sweet 
method and manner) — 
Fools ! If she chooses to work, who has the 
right to say No? 
Ay, if she choose to fulfil the rudest masculine 
labour — 
Vain of her prowess, perhaps ; glad of a livelier 
world — 
If she be earning her bread as a soldier, a sailor, 
a navvy; 
Brawny and swink'd at the forge, black in the 
deeps of the mine ; 
Or (as myself have known a comely and virtuous 
woman) 
Bred to the ostler's trade, breeches and gaiters 
and all : 
Ay, if she even do that ; who are you, who am I, 
to forbid her? 
She a grown woman, who says, ' This is the work 
I enjoy: ' 
She a grown woman, and free; a wife with con- 
sent of her husband; 
Widow, or damsel adult, needing no sanction at 
all? 
What ? Does it lie in your mouths to prohibit a 
woman from working? 



DOROTHY. 209 

You, who are always at hand, telling all women 
to work? 
You, who so warmly resent the lofty pretensions 
of manhood, 
Would you bring down on your sex laws that 
are fashion'd by men ? 
ParHament? Marry come up! The State is the 
Parliament's master. 
Surely; and who are the State? Women, or 
only the men? 
Why, all the men in the land, with the ' women 
and children ' to back them. 
Have not the right to forbid labour that is not , 
a crime ! / 



No, my political friend, my Colonel accepted of 
women. 
Leading your boisterous nymphs, graceful Ly- 
aeus, around; 
Whether in Parliament pent, or careering at large 
on a platform. 
You and your virulent nymphs have not con- 
verted us yet ! 
No — there may certainly be, as the prophet says, 
in our England, 

14 



210 DOROTHY. 

So many millions of folk, chiefly and hopelessly 
fools ; 
But we can most of us see, we commonplace prac- 
tical English, 
That which is true holds good whether one likes 
it or not. 
If it be true and confest that a woman (remem- 
bering always 
Nature has laid upon her tasks of her own to 
endure) — 
If it be true and confest that a woman has cour- 
age to labour; 
If she has sinews and strength, if she has heart 
for the work, 
And if the labour itself be such as Humanity bears 
with. 
Then she may do it, of course ; whether we like 
it, or not. 



Ah, but I think he is changed, our stately yet 
affable Colonel, 
Since he came back to the club, since he saw 
Dorothy George. 

Finding a daughter like her — obscure, unacknowl- 
edged, a servant; 



DOROTHY. 211 

Whom an aristocrat sire never could venture to 
own; 
Finding, however, that she, hardhanded, clumsy 
with labour, 
Still had a beautiful face, still had a womanly 
heart, 
Still, through her hardworking life (or, haply, be- 
cause of it, even?) 
Kept herself healthy and pure, grew to be stal- 
wart and strong, 
Kept herself tender and true, till her warm unsul- 
lied affection 
Flow'd, at the touch of his love, all to her 
Robert alone : 
Seeing all this for himself, with his own eyes, not 
with another's, 
Surely, I think, he is changed ; come to a hap- 
pier mind. 
cf^-O, Surely, ashamed of his Bill to Regulate Female 
Employment. 
He will have sense to avow that which his 
senses have seen: 
Leaving to doctrinaire dames the impertinent 
crazy endeavour 
Thus to give women restraints none would im- 
pose upon men.: 



212 DOROTHY. 

So that, deliver'd at last (for doctrinaire follies, 
unaided 
Save by the breath of conceit, sullenly whimper 
and die), 
Still may the peasant girls and the sturdy matrons 
of England, 
Bred to an open-air life such as their elders 
enjoy 'd. 
Duly become, like them, the mothers of masculine 
workers. 
Fit to maintain, to enlarge, England's historic 
renown : 
So that each lustier lass, who breathes the sweet 
air of the country — 
Or if, unhappy, she dwell deep in the horrible 
town — 
Still may have part with her men, In the work of 
the land that she lives in; 
Still may be seen, if she will, following horses 
at plough. 



APPENDIX. 



APPENDIX. 




PATERNAL LEGISLATURE, ever anxious, 
in its sentimental way, to keep women cribbed 
and coddled and ranked with children, has 
decreed that all female pit-workers shall leave 
their work at two o'clock on Saturday afternoons ; thus 
spoiling the task of the male workers (as these have often 
told me), and driving them, three hours earlier than 
usual, into the public-house. And so it happened on a 
Saturday afternoon, in the spring of 1879, that in walking 
through a certain pit-village I overtook Jemima Derricott, 
returning from her labour. 

Jemima is a stout solid lass of nineteen : strong and 
hearty, by reason of her work ; grave and earnest, as most 
pit-girls are. She had on her working dress : her sacking 
skirt, which had once been a potato-sack, and still bore in 
large red letters the name of its original owner ; below 
it, her gaiters and her mighty boots ; and above her 
ample waist, the cotton frock she wore was nearly hidden 
by a warm red shawl of coarse woollen ; whilst on her 
head, tilted upward like the tail of a fan tail pigeon, stood 
her picturesque lilac hood-bonnet : the one apt and beau- 



2l6 APPENDIX. 

tiful garment which working women all over rural England 
still have sense enough to retain. And under this bonnet 
Jemima's broad honest face appeared : a fresh and youth- 
ful face, which at that moment might be described heraldi- 
cally as chequy, gules and sable. She was not alone, our 
Jemima : she had with her two other girls — creatures of 
a very different type. They were factory- girls or semp- 
stresses, and had been ' playing ' all day — for they wore 
their Sunday dress : their ugly hats, their tawdry ribbons 
and sham flowers, their ill-made impudent frocks ; Hmp 
and white-faced weaklings, they were ; potential mothers 
of disease. One could hardly have had a greater contrast 
to Jemima ; and as it turned out, the three comrades were 
talking of that very contrast : or rather, the two limp ones 
were complaining of their work, and of its effects in some 
way or other upon their thin and feeble hands. 

* Work ? ' said the pit-girl, as I came up unobserved 
behind her — '■ work ? ' cried she, scornfully ; ' why, you 
should work as I do — and then your hands 'ud be as 
black and hard as mine is ! ' So saying, she proudly held 
forth, palm upwards, her large sinewy right hand ; which 
was as black as the coal it works in, and almost as hard. 
Was she ashamed of this hand, when she found that I was 
at her elbow — when I looked down at it and smiled? 
Not she ! She had too much sense : and as for me, the 
incident reminded me so of my Dorothy and some of her 
mates, that I at once resolved to put Jemima into print, 
and in this very Appendix. 

For it is wonderful, how Nature and Fact are ignored 
by Literature and by Art, in this matter of black faces and 



APPENDIX. 217 

hard hands. It is assumed, in the Fool's Paradise of 
novels and pictures, that such things do not exist at all, at 
least among women : or that, if they do, we must expect 
them only among women who are ugly and old. Did you 
ever hear of a heroine with a sooty face or horny hands ? 
Sir Thomas Overbury, indeed, says of his Faire and 
Happy M like- Maid, that she makes her hand hard with 
labour, and her heart soft with pittie : but then she was no 
heroine ; and what he says of her is as rare as it is beau- 
tiful. No — even if the First Chapter displays Griselda 
in a hovel or in the depths of a mine, you are always 
made to understand or to suppose that she differs from her 
fellows, at least in these two particulars. There can be no 
doubt that Molly Seagrim's handsome face was dirty, and 
that her hands were hard : but Fielding never says so ; 
he dared not. Smollett — does he ever say so, of any 
fair maiden ? As for Richardson, we know what a very 
superior young person Pamela was : humble as she 
thought herself, I do not recollect that she ever even 
scrubbed a floor. Miss Austen has little to do with the 
working classes ; and even Sir Walter, in all his Gorgeous 
Gallery of Gallant Inventions, does not, I think, once 
present us with a peasant girl who is both beautiful and 
hard-handed. 

Nay more : it is taken for granted by all writers that 
a heroine of the lower ranks nuist be different from her 
mates, if she is to win the love of the fated Fairy Prince. 
Even Scott countenances this assumption. Effie Deans 
is first a barefooted herd-girl, and then a tradesman's 
servant; yet the smallness and delicacy of her hands 



2l8 ^ APPENDIX. 

are specially mentioned : without such hands, Gentle- 
man Geordie would never have fallen in love with her ! 
'Tis the same, I need not say, among the mighty crowd of 
recent novelists. Their rustic heroines, when they have 
any, are all of the Dresden China kind : they dance along 
from village to village, like the sham peasants before Cath- 
erine Slayczar ; they wear indeed a country dress, but it is 
beautifully made, and worn with highbred grace ; indoors, 
they never do anything harder than dusting, and with a 
featherbrush ; and a little haymaking is their heaviest work 
out of doors. And the Honourable Tom Noddy, de- 
scending with his eyeglass upon such an heroine, observes 
at once how greatly she differs from the common peasant 
girls around : with rapture, he beholds her delicate form, 
her hands, ungloved, alas ! but dainty as his own ; and car- 
ries her off (in Volume Two) to assume her proper place 
and be a lady. 

Even the exceptions to this style only prove the rule. 
For instance, there is a clever satirical novel, with a title 
taken from Rabelais, where a highborn enthusiast resolves 
to wed the daughter of a cottager ; and it is shown how 
ignorant, how silly, how unworthy of him, she is. Yet 
even of such a girl, brought in for such a purpose, it is 
carefully stated that her hands, though red, were shapely 
and small. And there is another novel, a sort of converse 
of this one, and written by a clever woman, who herself 
(I believe) has risen from the ranks. Its heroine is a lady 
who has determined to become, and does for a time be- 
come, a peasant. Her hands are said to have grown 
brown and hard with outdoor work ; and she was proud of 



APPENDIX. 219 

them. But then she had a theory to maintain ; and she 
thought her lover was a working-man. After she found he 
was a gentleman, we discover that she forsook her theory 
and its results, and became a lady again. I have not forgot- 
ten an author who is perhaps the most dauntless of living 
story-tellers. His Christie yofmstone and his yael Dence 
are happy approximations to truth : still — but I forbear ; 
it is dangerous to criticise Mr. Charles Reade. Nor have 
I forgotten a very fair novel — I forget its name — in 
which an humble heroine, who has been busy at house- 
work, allows her lover to see her (because she can't help 
it) with a smutted face. But that was a slight and casual 
stain : and she, aghast at the contretemps, washes her face 
immediately, and returns in ravishing beauty. 

Upon the whole, it appears to be an accepted rule of 
fiction, that if a woman has red arms or coarse hands, she 
is old, ugly, and probably wicked : she merely exists as a 
foil to the exquisite niece or daughter or mistress, whose 
happiness she with fiendish malevolence persists in thwart- 
ing. It is the same, so far as I have observed, in French 
novels ; and, to a great extent, in German. Only, as the 
Germans are a homely people and their women are mostly 
coarser and clumsier than ours, you do now and then find a 
nice girl who is allowed to be natural and have ruddy arms 
or (like the Vulture- Maiden) hard coarse hands. I say 
natural : for any one who uses his eyes can see, whatever 
country he is in, that the soft-handed white-armed women 
are not in a majority, whether of numbers or of merit, 
even among the young. No one that I know of, however, 
has recognized this fact in words — unless it be Mr. Car- 



220 APPENDIX, 

lyle and the late Mr. Roebuck. 'Venerable to me is the 
hard hand,' says the prophet ; though indeed he is speak- 
ing rather of men than of women. And Mr. Roebuck, 
advising young working-men as to the choice of a wife, 
said once with courageous candour, ' But above all things, 
let her have red arms ! ' 

So much for prose. Of poetry, there is little to say 
herein : because poetry is concerned with beauty as well 
as with truth ; and the charm 

Of blacken'd faces and of horny hands 

fails to draw her ; seeing that these things are perhaps not 
beautiful. Peasant poets, as might be expected, are spe- 
cially apt to give small and delicate hands to their sweet- 
hearts : and reason good, even if the delicacy and the 
smallness be only relative ; for his sweetheart represents 
to a peasant poet those finer external aspects of women 
which poets of a higher class see in all their equals. 

Shakespeare, who spake of most things, has nowhere 
(I think) dwelt upon this subject. He tells us indeed of 
the * pretty chapped hands ' of Jane Smile the milkmaid : 
but he says nothing about Audrey's hands, though we may 
be sure they were both coarse and brown ; and when he 
describes 'the kitchen-wench — all grease,' he refrains 
from adding this touch of horror to her ugliness. He 
does, however, make Rosalind say of Phoebe — 

I saw her hand ; she has a leathern hand, 
A freestone-colour'd hand ; I verily did think 
That her old gloves were on, but 'twas her hands ; 
She has a huswife's hand ; but that's no matter. 



APPENDIX. 221 

No matter, indeed ! Why, it represents the vySpi? TrcTrat- 
Sevfjicvrj of a lady like Rosalind, looking on the hard-work- 
ing hands of a country girl like Phoebe, and despising her. 
And this, of course, is what Shakespeare meant ; but I sus- 
pect (though I say it with bated breath) that he did not 
realise the pathetic contrast between a sweet young face 
and a pair of work-worn hands. Yet Anne Hathaway 
must have had ' a huswife's hand ' when he married her. 
Wordsworth, whose rustic women and girls are so many, 
was concerned rather with their moral character and at- 
mosphere than with their physical frame ; and those who 
have not a special object in writing, may well respect the 
hmits of description imposed by his example — which is 
the highest of all examples. 

It remains, then, to speak of Painting. Painting has 
come down from theology to court circles, and from court 
circles to common hfe ; but she retains the traditions of 
her origin, and seldom tolerates a servant-maid or a field 
hand, unless by way of contrast to something better. 
Dutch genre pictures are an exception ; but the aspect of 
their female characters is so universally common-place or 
disgusting that it seems only to confirm the polite theory 
above mentioned, about the wickedness of all red-armed 
women. Take, for instance, the pig-feeding wench in 
Rubens's picture of the Prodigal Son. Ifer arms and 
hands are red and clumsy enough ; but then, she herself 
is detestable. 

The peasant girls in French and German pictures of 
recent date are, in this matter of hands, far more truthful 
than ours ; I can only recall one living English painter — 



222 APPENDIX. 

Mr. R. W. Macbeth — who has accurately shown the 
beauty and stateliness which may belong to a coarse- 
handed English country girl. Of /^//truthfulness, the ex- 
amples are innumerable. I will mention just one. Some 
years ago, I saw at the Royal Academy in London a pic- 
ture of the interview between Faust and Margaret in the 
garden. The moment represented was that in which he 
kisses her hand, and she exclaims — 

Wie konnt Ihr sie nur kiissen ? 
Sie ist so garstig, ist so rauh ! 

Now, making every allowance for undue depreciation of 
herself, we cannot suppose that an ardess straightforward 
girl like Margaret would say that her hands were garstig 
and rauh if they were not so. Yet the painter had given 
her hands as dainty and white as a lady's : and his picture 
was hung on the line — the place of honour. 

Perhaps it may be said that coarseness, especially in 
Woman, is beneath the notice of true Art, and that brawny 
strength can never be a feminine charm. 

» Well — I deny that any woman (or man either) is be- 
neath the notice of true Art : and if he or she is to be 
noticed at all, why then, an accurate notice is desirable^. 
And as to the other point : I have known many a strong 
lass whose strength was a part of her charms, if only by its 
very contrast to her other charms. And I refer (though 
with extreme diffidence, knowing how slight a hold the 
Bible has on modern life) to a statement of King Lemuel, 
concerning that Virtuous Woman whose price is far above 
rubies. *She girdeth her loins with strength,' says he; 



APPENDIX. 221 

' and strengtheneth her arms.' King Lemuel, apparently, 
would not agree with Monsieur Comte. 

And now at length, to come to our Dorothy and such 
as she : if you condescend to make their acquaintance. 
\ Nothing that Dorothy is or does but has been taken from 
life — from English life. Dorothy herself is mainly taken 
from hfe. Her daughter is at this moment in my senice : 
so that when the narrator of the story says that it all hap- 
pened ' only a twelvemonth ago,' you are to understand 
that, />ro hdc vice at least, he is not speaking 7iow. This 
same daughter, waiting at table once in a farmhouse 
parlour, took up a large tray, containing the whole of the 
tea-equipage for half a dozen people, with one hand, and 
so carried it off, not knowing that she had done an}thing 
remarkable. But one of the guests exclaimed : * ^^^ell, 
you are strong ! You remind me of a girl that was ser- 
vant at ^Vhite Rose Farm ; and there was a table in the 
house that nobody could lift but her, and she could carry 
it easy.' 'Well, sir,' said Dorothy's daughter, smiling, 
' and she was my mother ! ' Many another thing there is 
of Dorothy's doing, quod versu dicer e no7i est; and so I 
have omitted them. For instance, she thought nothing 
of caniing a full sack of com or of potatoes across the 
farmyard : and every week in the season, she drove her 
master's cart to market at the to\^Ti, five miles off. She 
harnessed the horse and put him in ; she drove alone all 
the way, with a calf, or a bevy of fowls, or both, in the 
cart ; and when she reached the town, she had no help 
from ostler or any man ; she unharnessed her horse, and 



224 APPENDIX. 

put him up in the stable of the inn, and fed him ; and 
then she went and stood in the market, with her calf and 
fowls, and waited till she had sold them and got the 
money, and then drove home again, still alone : for Robin 
had not yet declared himself. 

Then, too, her hands — the hard hands of a beautiful 
girl — are such as I have seen and felt. Her work is all 
of it work that is done, or that has been done, by hun- 
dreds of such girls. 

Nor can anyone say it is now unusual, except in the 
one article of ploughing. You may have seen girls 
ploughing, in Germany, in Switzerland, or elsewhere ; but 
not in England? Well, I have myself known or seen at 
least six English girls who could plough and did plough : 
two in Devonshire, two in Yorkshire, one in Gloucester- 
shire, and one in Cheshire. The Devonshire girls were 
sisters ; daughters of a small farmer who had no sons. 
They and their father together did the whole work of the 
farm ; and both he and they were proud, not only of their 
ploughmanship, but of their skill in all other such labour. 
The two Yorkshire girls were farm-servants, in different 
parts of the North Riding. Both were excellent plough- 
women : one of them (she was a lively lass, and fond of 
a spree) on a certain day when her master's landlord had 
come to visit the farm, assumed her brother's clothes and 
went out with her team, on purpose that the Squire might 
see her at plough and take her for a man. He did, and 
so admired the youth's ploughing that he called him off 
and gave him half-a-crown : which Mary, touching her 
cap, received into a ploughman's hand, and strode back 



APPENDIX. 225 

to her work, rejoicing in the success of that disguise. Had 
she appeared as a woman, however, she might have earned 
more ; for I remember a farmer's wife in Cheshire, who 
told me with pride that when she was young, and was 
ploughing near the roadside, the old Squire was so pleased 
with her performance that he at once gave her a sovereign. 
About the Gloucestershire girl, I know nothing : I merely 
saw her driving the plough, as we passed by in the train. 
But of the Cheshire lass, I have heard many a tale con- 
cerning her prowess from her father, a respectable farmer 
and breeder of horses. He told me she could plough as 
straight and well as any man he ever saw, and spoke with 
fatherly pride of the great help she gave him, in that and 
many other such ways. As for more feminine work, she 
took the first prize of the county for butter, five years run- 
ning, and eleven years running for cheese. This heroine is 
now a farmer's wife ; and as her husband has another busi- 
ness elsewhere, she manages the farm entirely, without his 
aid. 

Thus far, I have given only first-hand evidence in favour 
of our Dorothy : I have not referred to that which may 
be found in the Reports of the Agricultural Commissions. 
I will, however, quote one passage relating to Dorothy's 
own neighbourhood, from a report ' drawn up for the con- 
sideration of the Board of Agriculture ' about eighty years 
ago. * It is painful,' says the inspector (he came from 
Scotland, and perhaps with a bee in his bonnet) — ' it is 
painful to one, who has in his composition the smallest 
spark of knight-errantry, to behold the beautiful servant- 
maids of this county toiling in the severe labours of the 

15 



226 APPEyDIX. 

field. They drive the harrows, or the ploughs, [even] 
when they are drawTi by three or four horses ; nay, it is not 
uncommon to see, sweating at the dung cart, a girl, whose 
elegant features and delicate nicely proportioned limbs 
seemingly but ill accord with such rough employment.' 
The servant-maids of that county — and of some other 
counties — are still more or less beautiful ; they still drive 
the harrow and help at the dung cart, even if they have 
mostly ceased to plough ; and our romantic inspector might 
be pleased to find that they have not inherited from their 
mothers those deUcate limbs, in spite of which the lasses 
worked so well in his day. Dehcate or not, ' The females 
who work in the fields are generally the best attired and 
most healthy of the population ' : so said one of the high- 
est of agricultural authorities, referring to that same county 
and its borders, in 1 843 ; and his word is good to the 
present hour. 

The reader (if I have any readers) w^ observe in our 
Dorothy's history that suggestions of place and period are 
hardly ever made. Nevertheless, her story is not without 
some touches of ' local colour,' obvious enough to those 
who may care for such an humble and coarse-handed 
creature as she is. Wliom I might now leave, with all her 
defects, to the candid critic ; congratulating him upon the 
ease with which the matter and manner of this book will 
lend itself to ridicule. 

But, as I have wTitten in Elegiacs, it is well, perhaps, to 
add a few words about that. We are not ignorant, breth- 
ren, of what has been said and done concerning English 
Hexameters ; fi-om the days of Hobbinol, and Abraham 



APPENDIX. 227 

Fraunce, and Philip Sidney, down to those of \Miewell, 
and Clough, and Longfellow, and Kingsley, and Matthew 
Arnold, and that lunu?i purpureum, Mr. A. C. SwinbumQ. 
J As for ElegiacsA there was one who said that — 

In the Hexameter rises the fountain's silver}' column, 
In the Pentameter aye falling in melody back : 

I but few have taken kindly to these measures ; their fi-iends 
are feeble, like myself; and their enemies are might}% and 
rage horribly ; and if they rage against the Hexameter, 
how much more against the rarer and more difficult Pen- 
tameter^ Nevertheless, we, having chosen our measure 
for no inadequate reasons, have done our best not to 
break the rules thereof — that one postulate of accent in- 
stead of quantity being granted : behe\ing, that the metres 
of Theocritus and Virgil need not be degraded, though 
the heroine of our Idylhum be notliing better than poor 
Dorothy Crump. 



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